


The Friend Trilogy

by Holde_Maid



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6976885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe encounters one of the legacies of Methos' days in ancient Rome, and from there things get turbulent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friend in the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> RATING: "R"  
> Parts of this story may contain Adult Themes and explicit sexual content. Reader discretion advised.
> 
> Disclaimer  
> The Highlander concept, characters and universe don’t belong to me, but to Davis/Panzer (and possibly associates of theirs). I’m merely borrowing these lovely ingredients to cook up just-for-fun stories. I’m not making money and don’t intend harm. Diana, however, is my own creation.
> 
> Thanks  
> I owe my husband thanks for helping me with the historical detail on ancient Rome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two original characters bring more pep into the Highlander guys' lives... :P

   
   
_[Rome, in the year of the Consules Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus_  
and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives, 684 (1)]  
   
Aulus Tullius Auratus sat in the hot-water pool of a public bath. The fair-skinned man sprawling in the water next to Titus Clodius felt extra-ordinarily relaxed. Beneath the long nose that women found attractively Roman, a sardonic smile curled his lips.  
   
"But I don’t have it!" the balding man beside him protested, agitatedly trying to keep his voice down. Tullius Auratus grinned at the thought that the high dome of the thermae and the water itself carried their voices rather too well for Clodius’ taste. And that was exactly why Tullius had suggested the thermae for this meeting. "I don’t have the money," Clodius hissed, unnerved by Aulus Tullius’ grin.  
   
The thousand sesterces Titus Clodius was talking about were peanuts to Tullius, though more than a plebeian’s annual income. At any rate, it was a reasonable amount for Clodius.  
   
For the last 15 minutes, however, he had been explaining, at great length and with a well-developed sense for drama, that he could not pay back the now due instalment of the money he had borrowed from Tullius Auratus five years ago.  
   
Incidentally, Tullius knew, this was true. At the moment. Titus Clodius had foolishly spent more money on goods he would sell with a handsome profit as well as for his own pleasure than he could afford under the circumstances.  
   
Aulus Tullius turned and stared at his burly customer discouragingly through the steam rising around them, until the man fell silent. Then he answered calmly, "You ought to have given me those 1,000 sesterces -- only 10 Aureii, after all! -- yesterday morning. Either you hand them over now, or we will have to appeal to the authorities to help us solve our dilemma. You do not want this little matter to become public, do you?"  
   
The untypical velvet softness in Aulus’ voice together with the cold glitter in his eyes had almost the same effect on his sweating customer as an icy hand tightening around his neck. The man seemed suddenly oblivious to the hot water that surrounded them. He shuddered. That was understandable, though. If Tullius decided to bring the case before the Praetor Urbanus, it could turn his momentary shortage in cash into a financial disaster for him. Not to mention the disgrace...  
   
"Look," Clodius asked more demurely, "what if I give you something instead of money? A slave? I have a cook I can go without ... a nice, well-trained girl... Agreed?"  
   
"Show her to me. Then I will decide."  


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
"Well worth 11 Aureii, really. Take a good look," Titus Clodius beamed three hours and a delectable dinner later.  
   
Unimpressed, Aulus Tullius looked the girl over. She was a Gaul with creamy white skin and long red hair, perhaps fourteen years of age. Her appearance was acceptable; In fact, she was rather pretty. And if she had, indeed, cooked dinner on her own she would make a very good cook. The remnants of the taste of stuffed parrot and iced lotus-leaf still caressed his palate.  
   
But he wanted to learn more. "I need to see her naked."  
   
Her gasp was barely noticeable. She hesitated and waited for her current owner’s affirmative nod. Then she undressed quickly, turning pink and avoiding their eye.  
   
He could see the muscles on her abdomen contract as her breath became faster and shallower. Apart from the unnatural tension in her whole body, she stood still and obedient and didn't try to cover herself, as the men walked around her and discussed her worth. Since her head was bowed, he saw more of her red frills than of her face. Obviously she had washed her hair recently -- the smell of the herbs that scented the red curls was fairly strong, though not too unpleasant. Tullius’ gaze sank lower. Her shoulders were drawn down by the sinewy arms that she pushed against her sides forcefully. She was definitely not at ease, quite as he had intended. Discomfort was far more revealing than its opposite.  
   
In taking another step he finished a full circle, and made up his mind. True, her back was full of scars, but barring that, her body was perfectly to Aulus’ liking. However, if Titus Clodius thought he’d get an extra Aureus in return for her, he was much mistaken. And so finally it was decided that Tullius Auratus would graciously accept being over-paid on account of the late repayment.  
   
He stepped in front of the girl, "Look at me." He noticed she was biting her lower lip nervously while she looked him in the eye. "You are mine now. Will you obey and respect me as your master?"  
   
"Yes, domine." At her eager nod her tight red curls bobbed slightly.  
   
_She **is** well worth 11. So why does Clodius look relieved? He wouldn’t dare give me a disobedient slave, would he?_  
   
Tullius Auratus rejected any means to bind the girl, adding contemptuously, "After all, we are not in Greece!" Roman slaves could be relied on to be obedient enough to go wherever their master told them.  
   
It was the first time he saw the girl smile.  


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
When Aulus Tullius Auratus arrived at his domus he already knew a good deal more about both his new cook and Titus Clodius. He knew his new slave to be, for instance, not overly disobedient (or not stupid enough to attempt an escape).  
   
He was also getting the impression that Clodius took a pleasure not quite befitting a Roman in punishing his slaves. If this was true it would ensure the girl’s loyalty to Tullius himself if he treated he more kindly. Good. -- Unless, of course, she considered her new master weak...  
   
As they entered the silent atrium she addressed him shyly, "Domine..." Her voice was a little squeaky with nerves.  
   
Without turning to her he answered, "Yes? Speak."  
   
They crossed to the medium-sized dining room on the right-hand side at the back of the atrium. It led on to the peristylium.  
   
"Ummm... I take it you will require my services now?"  
   
They stepped out into the cool of the dark garden and here, finally, he stopped to face the girl. Brought alive by stray rays of light from the atrium, her red hair looked a red aura to her self-conscious face. "Yes. How did you know?"  
   
"You..." Her head dropped an inch lower. "You wanted to see me without clothes..."  
   
Secretly amused he replied, "I see. Actually, I had been thinking of no more than a cup of warm milk. But since you seem determined to get into my bed" -- at this she winced and it became slightly more difficult for Tullius Auratus to keep a straight face -- "so you shall. But first, the milk."  
   
He deliberately surprised her by guiding her to the kitchen himself.  
   
Then he went back through the peristylium and on to the door of the house, where his ageing doorkeeper was sleeping. As Aulus Tullius Auratus neared him, the slave opened a watchful eye. Aulus knew that he had also done so when his master had entered the domus. He always did.  
   
Tullius extended a hand to stop him from getting up. In quiet tones the man was told to keep an eye on the new slave, lest she might try to leave the house at an inappropriate time. Tullius did not expect the girl to do any such thing, but it was just as well to be prepared.  
   
"And if she needs catching," Tullius Auratus added with a smile, "don’t ruin the chain." (By which he was referring to the rather unconvincing piece of metal work that theoretically held the doorkeeper in his place.) Patting his slave’s still fairly well-muscled shoulder, he winked, and left as noiselessly as he had come.  
   
When he returned to the kitchen, his new cook was retrieving the cooking-pot from among the glowing ashes on the hearth in the far corner of the room. He could smell burning wood and the soft, warm scent of the milk. The room had warmed up comfortably in the meantime, even though the floor underneath his sandals was not very warm anymore.  
   
She poured the milk into an earthen drinking bowl for him.  
   
Noting that she had successfully avoided burning it in the least, he took the bowl from her and lumbered against the wall. Meanwhile, the girl started to clean up efficiently.  
   
It was a pleasure to watch her go about her duties; she performed them well. Her motions were both precise and graceful. Aulus handed her the empty bowl to watch her wash it. She had obviously memorised the proper place of cooking-pot and bowl prior to use. Quickly everything was put back in order.  
   
At length Tullius Auratus beckoned the girl to follow him. Again they passed through the comparative chill of the peristylium.  
   
There Tullius paused to listen to the sounds of the night for a moment: Wind brushing through tree-tops in a near-by park. Water running into the fountain in the peristylium's centre. A cart rattling over the cobblestone on the street. Even the barely audible noises of a bat. A beautifully calm night.  
   
Once again in the atrium, Tullius opened a door to his right that led to his own room, and left it open for the slave.  
   
Indicating the washstand, he told her to refresh herself.  
   
Meanwhile, he removed his ring and golden bracers that had, along with an assortment of other gold trinkets, earned him a somewhat doubtful, effeminate reputation. Which was exactly what they had been intended for, he remembered with satisfaction. Additionally, they had triggered his nickname Auratus, "the golden". That had, of course, not been planned on. Yet it served to mildly amuse him, being a very predictable reaction and typical of Roman society. And finally, most importantly, several of them either concealed or could be used as a handy, if limited, weapon. He put them back into the wooden safe that held his jewels.  
   
Tullius Auratus sat on the bed and watched his newly acquired slave undress.  
   
She cleaned herself hurriedly, facing him for some reason. When he noticed that she used the towel more as a cover than to dry herself, Tullius snapped his fingers and ordered her to join him.  
   
He lay on the bed, propped up on an elbow and smiled as she meekly sat beside him, still clutching the towel.  
   
Shyly she lay on her back. When he reached out to draw it off her, she closed her eyes and awaited... a kiss, a caress, the feel of his weight shifting onto her?  
   
He grinned down at her, and did nothing. Finally her eyes opened again.  
   
"I think you will find me a more agreeable master than you expected."  
   
He rose. Well, she probably knew how to cook, indeed, nor was she not ready to do his bidding. So why else had her former master been this willing to surrender her to Tullius? Why hadn’t he sought a cheaper way out?  
   
_I don’t suppose that was mere stupidity._  
   
His toga, with its narrow purple stripe that proclaimed Tullius to be an eques, dropped to the tiled floor. Next, the tunic slid down his long limbs. He washed, enjoying the cool water cleaning the fine layer of dust off his skin, and dried carelessly.  
   
All of a sudden he turned to the girl and said, "I will not put your obedience to the test," only to add ominously, "Unless I have to." With that he blew out the one candle he had left burning by the wash-stand, and returned to the bed. He could have rolled across her slim body, but he preferred to walk around the bed. For a moment he moved in front of the tiny window against which he would be outlined, a big looming shadow. He slipped between the covers, and back into normal proportions.  
   
"Now try and sleep. Good night." He turned her his back.  
   
Unexpectedly, a small, cool hand began to caress his shoulder. "Domine?"  
   
She had the cheek to address him, right after being told to sleep?! "What?"  
   
"I have to make a confession, domine."  
   
_If you claim to be horny, I shall punish you._  
   
She waited a few seconds before asking in a small voice, "May I continue?"  
   
He sighed, "Speak, slave," and lay on his back.  
   
"My master ... my _former_ master wants me to spy on you, domine."  
   
_Almost too obviously so._  
   
Tullius turned to her. "Why do you tell me this?"  
   
"I belong to you now. Him I owe no loyalty; Only you." She found and kissed his hand.  
   
He smiled. "You will not regret having been honest." _You will only regret being too clever by half, if you try double-crossing me. -- Even that might be fun, though._ "But tell me two things, slave: One, why did you not tell me so earlier? And two, what does Titus Clodius need a spy for?"  
   
"The answer to your first question is, I am ashamed to say, that I was afraid ... or not strong-willed enough." She paused. Tullius wondered what look she was giving him in the dark. Then she continued, "The answer to the second: I believe Titus Clodius hopes to have his debt reduced."  
   
"How?"  
   
"He expects me to tell him..." She hesitated. "...compromising things about you."  
   
Tullius laughed. "You mean he thinks I sleep with men, not women, and wants you to prove it." He added, abruptly changing his tone to serious and off-hand, "Well, you won’t."  
   
He slipped his hand over her naked belly, feeling it tense at his touch, and around her hip. He drew her close to sniff at the top of her head. "You will use different herbs to wash your hair. I don’t like this smell."  
   
Her head sank against his chest, conveying shame. "I am sorry, domine. Please forgive me. Do you wish me to..."  
   
"No. Not now. -- And tomorrow you will remind me to punish you."  
   
"Yes, domine," she answered submissively. She even groped for his hand beneath the light blanket to kiss it again. The gesture caused Tullius to smile and release her.  
   
He asked, "What have you been called?"  
   
"Most of my life I was called Diana. Titus Clodius named me Hera, though."  
   
"Very suitable. But I like Diana better. It is more..." -- he grinned, unseen in the dark -- "true to character." He reached down and cupped her private parts. Then his middle finger moved slightly, he frowned and muttered, "Or maybe not."  
   
He withdrew the hand and sniffed at it. Sarcastically, he accused her: "You didn’t dry yourself as properly as a virgin should."  
   
Flustered, she stammered, "No, domine... I’m sorry... I'm not..." She faltered. He allowed the silence to grow heavy, as he waited for her to continue. At last she explained she was not a virgin, even though she had not yet borne a child. Like many women, she apparently counted the latter as a failing of hers.  
   
Tullius Auratus shrugged. "You behave like one, at any rate."  
   
"Please, domine, I know where my duty lies," she hastened to assure him, "I will not resist you! I will not ..."  
   
"Shut up!" he snapped, interrupting her pledge. "I am not in the mood." He rose abruptly and went to the toilet in a concealed corner of the room. He _WAS_ in the mood. Only she was not to know.  
   
When he returned, his hands, feeling for the bed, found her sitting on it. "I told you to sleep. Why are you still awake?"  
   
"I hoped to get your permission to ask you something..."  
   
"Granted," he answered brusquely.  
   
"Was it wrong to tell you of Titus Clodius’ plans, domine?"  
   
"Only if you lied. Or if you told the truth in order to lie."  
   
She sounded hurt. "I could never fail you like that, domine." Her tone changed. Quietly resigned, she conceded, "But I do understand that I have no way of proving it to you."  
   
   
_[Seacouver, Joe’s Bar; modern day]_  
   
The music was loud and cheerful. Most of the guests sat at the tables close to the band. The solitary fair-skinned man at the bar was the only one that had come over to have a quiet chat with Joe.  
   
"Good evening, domine," a beautifully modulated female voice said from behind the guest.  
   
Joe Dawson looked up as the tall man's dark-haired head turned. His guest smiled. "Good evening, Diana. But you really shouldn’t call me domine anymore. Joe here will get quite confused if you do! I am Adam these days. -- And what do you call yourself nowadays?"  
   
The red-haired young woman gave Joe a sweet smile, then turned to Adam again. "I am still Diana, as always."  
   
Adam shook his head disapprovingly. "Tsk, tsk!"  
   
Joe, meanwhile, smiled back at the woman in her tight elegant leather suit, thinking that it contrasted favourably with Adam's baggy trousers and sweater. Her red-and-black tie and shirt mirrored her short red hair, while the dark grey leather set off her porcelain-like skin. Joe wondered fleetingly what that delicate neck might smell like, if one weren't in a bar with heavy smokers around... "Welcome to my bar, Diana." Then he addressed Adam, his eyes sparkling with curiosity, "I guess she's a close friend of yours?"  
   
"She was my slave once. And from the look in her eyes..." -- he gave her a friendly searching look -- "...I should say she is still devoted to me." He stroked her hair in a somewhat possessive gesture.  
   
Since Adam was uncommonly outspoken at the moment, Joe decided to be so, as well, "She's in love with you."  
   
"Yes, I am," Diana confirmed with a grin, "I’ve been in love with him since the day he first punished me."  
   
_Well, no harm in asking._ "What did he do?"  
   
She gave Adam a questioning look that was answered by a studiously non-committal smile.  
   
Then she leaned over the counter and whispered a few sentences in Joe’s ear.  
   


   
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_[Rome, in the year of the Consules Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus  
and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives, 684]_  
   
When Tullius Auratus woke in the morning, it was still dark. Since most of his fellow-citizens did so, his new slave had rightly assumed that he usually got up before day-break. So now a burning candle stood on the low table beside his bed, shedding its light on his elongated face. However, Diana had screened it off with a small bottle to keep the glow from disturbing her new master’s sleep.  
   
As he rose, she knelt beside his bed and offered him the whip in her hands. "You wished to be reminded..." She looked up at him and waited for his reaction. What would he do? Or, more to the point, how severely would he punish her?  
   
He nodded curtly. "Wait till I am dressed."  
   
He relieved himself, washed and dressed at his leisure before returning his attention to her. The girl stayed where she was, shivering from time to time. She had washed her hair already, and now she felt the lingering moisture cold against her skull and her back. The floor was still fairly cold, since the fires for the floor-heating system had only just been started.  
   
She shivered again.  
   
In the early morning cold it would hurt even worse than usual, Diana reflected, when he took the whip and told her to follow him. Doing so, she noted the strange, easy sway of his hips and the gold jewellery he was wearing. Little wonder her previous master had thought he preferred men in bed. All the same, the way Tullius had held her disproved Clodius’ notion, she mused.  
   
Stepping out into the peristylium, Tullius clapped his hands twice. Immediately a tall Nubian emerged from the slave quarters crossed the lush grassy court and bowed before him. "Good morning, domine."  
   
Tullius glanced at Diana briefly, before he turned to the tall man. "Marcus, take my new slave to the kitchen." This sounded as if the Nubian were Tullius’ major domus. "Diana is a cook and will assist Aphrodite. You will make sure that nobody takes advantage of her during her punishment."  
   
He handed the major domus the whip.  
   
_"Let nobody take advantage"? Whatever can he mean?_  
   
"As for your punishment, Diana: Even though you did so too late, you did inform me of Clodius’ plans. So I will not have you whipped. Now undress."  
   
Taken by surprise, the girl started. She obeyed, of course, despite feeling cold, rather puzzled and intensely embarrassed.  
   
"You will stay like this the whole day. You may only cover yourself to avoid injury. Naturally you will not leave the house, nor show yourself in the atrium. No slave will touch you. And you will accept all chores you are told to do. Do you understand?"  
   
Diana, who had been finding it hard to concentrate on what he was saying, bowed. "Yes, domine."  
   
With a curt gesture Tullius Auratus dismissed the two slaves before turning to his own quarters for the quiet exercises that usually filled the hours after dawn, while his numerous clientes began to drift into his atrium.  
   


   
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_[Seacouver, Joe’s Bar; modern day]_  
   
Joe's clear grey-blue eyes beneath the shock of salt-and-pepper hair were angry. He looked at Adam in distaste, then at the young woman in disbelief. "You _liked_ him for that?! Hell, you said you were only fourteen!"  
   
"Now you’re thinking twentieth century, Joe," Adam put in quietly. "Think 70 BC: She was as grown-up as any of today’s 18-year-olds; most of her female peers were probably married or engaged. -- And as for her punishment... She could have fared worse." Even though there was only the ghost of a dark hint in Adam’s voice, the calm gaze of his dark, greenish-brown eyes sent an icy shiver down Joe’s spine.  
   
Suddenly he wondered just how much Diana knew about her former owner. The young woman herself looked cheerful enough as she concurred seriously, "Far worse."  
   
Dawson preferred not to probe into that any further and asked, "So what happened then?" He fell silent, on second thought finding himself a bit too inquisitive. So he waved his stout walking-stick deprecatingly. "Okay, okay. I won't ask."  
   
"You already know what happened then: I fell in love with him," she laughed, her voice a musical tinkle.  
   
"Well, I can only say that's unbelievable," Joe commented diplomatically while he gave her an engaging smile. When her cell-phone rang and she moved away from them to take the call, however, he hissed at Adam: "How can you do this to her?! Even the way you touch her..."  
   
"Is the way she likes it." He stood, his eyes locking with Joe’s. "I can be anyone I choose to be. This is not a bad choice at all. So if she does not object, why should you?"  
   
Joe Dawson prided himself that he wasn't scared easily. But a coldness touched him with these words that made his every hair stand on end. It gave him a vague idea of things Adam might still be capable of. He stood his ground, though -- not so much out of bravado, but rather because he had difficulties moving; his walking stick now seemed strangely unreliable and shaky, while the prosthetics supporting his thighs wouldn't move. He had to cling to the more solid support of the counter.  
   
The sudden chill melted away as subtly as it had manifested itself. Adam smiled and touched Joe’s shoulder softly. "Umm ... I guess I’ll practise being a bully elsewhere."  
   
Joe was too disquieted to notice how rare a gesture this was in Adam. It occurred to him only later that it had almost resembled an apology. For the moment Dawson concentrated on wording his answer carefully while taking a backward step. "I can’t help feeling you shouldn’t practise it at all."  
   
"Anything’s worthwhile if it helps avoid a fight," Adam remarked in a light tone.  
   
"I... I understand." And up to a point, Joe thought, he really did. During the war he had been forced to reach into his soul and drag out a more ugly alter ego that survived some of the worst situations for him when he couldn’t take it anymore. Adam had probably done the same in the long gone past, only on a larger scale, in a way Joe didn’t care to try comprehending fully. Even now that he had but hinted at it, Joe had shrunk back from him. For a few seconds he had been reminded of a wolf showing its fangs as a preliminary warning. So that was how Adam had survived for about two centuries without battling other Immortals?  
   
For a fleeting moment Joe felt excessively thankful for his own mortality.  
   
A moment later Diana joined them again, but she was in a hurry: "I'm so sorry. I have to leave -- urgent business." She grimaced at her mobile phone, kissed a more than surprised Joe good-bye and was gone. The only thing she left behind was the barely detectable smell of jasmine and orange blossom.  
   


   
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_[Seacouver, Adam Pierson's flat; modern day]_  
   
Adam was idly flipping through the pages of his diary.  
   
The diary was not one of those that parents will buy for their adolescent kids; small booklets with tiny padlocks, rarely destined to hold more than the scribblings of puberty. No. This one was HUGE. Written in languages ranging from ancient Egyptian to Modern English, it spanned thousands of years. The musty smell and the slightly mouldy feel of the pages bore witness to its authenticity. And it contained the many lives of Methos, currently known as Adam Pierson.  
   
Methos -- oldest of Immortals, mostly considered no more than a legend, he pondered. For a while that Methos had almost seemed like another person, not him. His diary was unexpectedly conspicuous, and outspoken, for a man so mysterious, he reflected, mentally taking the perspective on an onlooker.  
   
At length he found the entry he had been looking for. Given the time and place it had been composed, one might have supposed it to be Latin, but in fact it was written in Greek.  
   
Translated into English, it read:  
   
   
|  _Diana is very different: I do not have to overcome her loathing, but her obedience. She is so in awe of me that really seducing her won't be too easy. She finds it easier to lie with Marcus. Yet, fearful like a beaten dog, she loves me already.  
_  
---  
   
   
Oh yes, he remembered what it had been like...  
   
There had been no swords on Rome's streets -- not worn openly, anyway. For an Immortal, it had been a relatively safe city. He had liked Rome, especially after he had made it from slave to master within half a mortal lifespan.  
   
Joe was right, it was unbelievable. He had owned Diana only for a couple of years. Yet those few years had sufficed to earn him her loyalty for almost two millennia. He didn't really know what had made her love him unto this day, even though her love was not returned measure for measure. Feeling mildly curious, he had sought the answer in his diary.  
   
Well, perhaps he would find out when he met her again tomorrow. The diary, at any rate, did not yield more information than his memory already had.  
   


   
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_[Rome, in the year of the Consules Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus  
and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives, 684]_  
   
"May I go to bed, domine?"  
   
"No, Diana. You will sleep with me tonight." He grinned when his slave tried not to look shocked. "You will sleep in my bed," Tullius amended and beckoned her into the cool of his room. While he took off his rings and undid the clasp on his toga, he watched her prepare herself and go to bed.  
   
He kept his eyes on her deliberately even while he removed toga, tunic and underwear.  
He washed and dried himself at his leisure. At last he finally approached the girl lying on her back, taking the candle over to the low table by the bed. Respectfully she turned to face him as he squatted by the bed. Her eyes were unsteady. Obviously she thought he expected her to meet his gaze despite her shyness.  
   
His hand slid under the covers and on to her bare thigh, ending up on her hip. Her moist skin felt cool to the touch. He drew the back of his fingers down from her hip, along the joints to her pubic hair. He watched the girl closely. He could see she didn’t dare move, half enjoying his tender touch, half embarrassed by its intimate nature.  
Steadily his fingers trailed along the soft warm skin -- from hip to mound, from mound to hip, his touch concentrated. Judging by experience, it would be on the verge of but not _quite_ tickling her. Steady, regular and unchanging, yet never quite the same.  
He noticed that her eyes were now resting on him more confidently, while her breath had quickened. Yes, she was ready.  
   
He stopped but kept watching her while he slipped into the bed beside her.  
He put his index finger under her chin and lifted it until her eyes met his. "What are you feeling, little slave? Are you unhappy?"  
   
She cleared her throat, but her voice still sounded hoarse. "No, domine." Obviously, that was only half the answer.  
   
"Afraid, then," he stated and pulled her closer, allowing the girl no opportunity to confirm or deny that. He relished the way her back arched into his arm. "I already told you I would not expect you to do my bidding in the sheets, but that there is one thing I do demand of all my slaves." It didn’t sound like one, but he meant it to be a question.  
   
Having been his for less than a week she already seemed to understand that. She smiled. "I am yours, domine."  
Even so, she was still too shy about kissing her very master. He had to half force her mouth open, though her hot little tongue welcomed him readily enough.  
   
The kiss laid bare far more than mere facial anatomy. It demanded all and held back nothing in return. Even in his kiss he controlled her -- and Diana rejoiced in his arms.  
   
   
Nothing lasts forever.  
Actually, most things last only for a very short while.  
   
   
He smiled. "Did you enjoy that?" He permitted untypical warmth to fill his voice.  
   
She smiled back happily. "Yes, domine."  
She loved him already.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Modern day Seacouver, Adam Pierson's flat]_  
   
He opened the door and they entered. Diana smiled as she took in the room. It was calm, cool, clean and simple in a lordly fashion, she thought. "Very suitable a domicile, domine."  
   
Instead of answering, he sat in a high-backed throne-like chair. "So. What is it you want of me tonight?"  
   
_Even more suitable._  
   
She strode over to him and knelt. "Take charge. Let me be your slave for the night."  
She had always come to him every few years, and asked to be his slave for one night. So surely he knew she sometimes regretted having been set free; and very likely he also knew why, she thought fleetingly.  
   
"Very well. Then be my slave and obey my command." He watched her for a long moment before demanding: "Smile."  
   
She tried.  
   
"No, a real smile."  
   
She thought of the last night she had spent with him and felt a happy and quite natural smile spread on her features.  
   
"Good." He stretched out his hand, took hold of her chin and lifted it slightly. "What now?" A thin, sarcastic and lopsided grin curled his lips. It reminded her that he could be quite cruel at will.  
   
Yet her level gaze was calm and honest. "Anything you wish, domine."  
   
"Indeed?" he challenged her.  
   
For a moment she let the mask slip, and an amused grin surfaced. "I am safe with you, and even if I weren't ... my life is yours for the taking. I owe it to you, and I will give it back to you willingly when the time comes." She had always made sure he knew that in this, too, she was sincere.  
   
She watched his grin soften to a calculating smile.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
She was waiting for him to act, but he took his time. By his inactivity he compelled her to remain equally inactive, though attentive. The fact that he forced her into her old slave’s behaviour pattern now showed her his dominance most provocatively. Her legs grew cold, but she did not notice it. The sheer suspense roused her, while he lounged in his throne-like chair comfortably.  
   
At long last he told her to undress and observed her while she did so.  
   
Naked, she knelt before him again, disregarding the tiled floor that felt cool and hard against her shins and foot-wrists.  
   
"Stand. Close your eyes."  
   
He rose and crossed the room in leisured paces.  
   
A few seconds later she heard him return, his now naked feet pattering over the floor. "Now keep still."  
   
She felt goose-bumps rise on her skin when he stroked her belly with something soft. Then something in the way it touched her changed and now the soft tissue tickled. She tried to obey his command while he continued tickling her relentlessly, but it was impossible. Her eyes flew open while she was laughing and she saw he was employing two feathers.  
   
He scolded her and dropped the feathers, an eagle's and an ostrich's, to slap her buttocks lightly: "Disobedient little slave!"  
   
"Cruel master!" she laughed.  
   
"Awww!" He took her, turned her, embraced and kissed her with the assurance of a true master. And with honest passion.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
_[later that evening]_  
   
"Diana, don't leave tomorrow. Stay, but stay as a friend, not as slave or servant."  
   
Like so many times before, she was not quite sure whether he was ordering or asking her. That made his request all the more impossible to refuse. "Very well, I'll stay." Was there an unusual warmth in her cheeks? She wasn’t blushing, was she? It was an honour, but she’d have to fight hard against the temptation of reading too much into the spontaneous gesture. He had said "friend", no more.  
   
The word "friend", she noted, had become more frequent in her former master's vocabulary since he had got to know some Immortal named Duncan MacLeod. She had always been watching Adam's back in a casual fashion, ever since he had released her from his services. When MacLeod had come into play, she had suddenly feared for him. At first she had suspected the younger Immortal of treachery. She had soon been relieved of that fear, but then Adam had begun to take untypical risks. Just thinking of them made a cold shiver run down her back.  
   
She had implored him to be more careful. Even so he had almost been killed in an incident with some ... childhood friends of his that called themselves "The Horsemen", after his ordering her in no uncertain terms not to interfere.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Seacouver, Mother-Theresa-Park, a few weeks earlier]_  
   
"Why are you here?"  
   
"I heard this Cassandra woman is looking for you, domine."  
   
"She is. Leave her in peace. Whatever you do, spare MacLeod and Cassandra."  
   
"But... Why?"  
   
"I owe them more than you'd think. And so do you, especially in Cassandra's case."  
   
She started to argue that he was risking too much, but he shut her up with a single glance: "I may be risking my life, but for once I _have_ one to risk. I haven't felt this alive for centuries!"  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Back at Adam's flat]_  
   
"Can I ask you something?" Diana suddenly inquired, interrupting Methos’ thought.  
   
He nodded.  
   
"Why did you ask me to stay?"  
   
_Should one answer that honestly? Well, maybe._ "Even I feel lonely at times."  
   
"That doesn't sound like the whole answer."  
   
He looked up, surprised. "Indeed..." Suddenly he realised that since the morning she had refrained from calling him ‘domine’. He hesitated. "It's not the whole answer, but that's the reply I can give you right now."  
   
"Then maybe you’d care to answer a different question."  
   
He smiled without consenting in so many words.  
   
"You once said you owe Cassandra; Why?"  
   
He was tempted to tell her that it was no business of hers. But that was too easy now. "That's a very personal matter." He paused again, then explained, "She is part of what made me who I am today. She might not know or care, but I do owe her for that."  
   
"You care about her, don't you?"  
   
"Much like I care about you." His smile reflected a well-calculated amount of tenderness, while at the back of his mind he was cursing in five languages.  
   
She nodded. "I believe she is in danger."  
   
He went very quiet. "How? Who, or what?" It was his business-voice he employed now. The one he had always used when discussing slave sales and the like. Here he was, helplessly back at being her master again.  
   
"There's a young Immortal I've been keeping an eye on, Courla Petrova. She's in prison, on death row, for having tried to kill her husband. Experts said she'd be executed in a few years’ time. Anyway, she has been reading a lot there, and I noticed she has been frantically searching for information on Roland Kantos -- and his teacher..."  
   
"Cassandra," he concluded, cutting her short.  
   
She nodded. "At any rate, I just heard on the news that she has killed herself." She fell silent. There was no need to elaborate. As an Immortal she wouldn’t stay dead, of course. She’d only be free the sooner. Most likely the woman had "killed" herself because she was on the hunt. They both knew Kantos was dead; MacLeod had killed him. That left only one person Petrova could be hunting.  
   
"Cassandra has survived quite a few enemies. Does Petrova really stand a chance?"  
   
"She's a mere child, only 260 years old. Still, her old colleagues at the MIT say she's ‘a freaking genius’. And I don't think she will go for a fair fight. Not if her attempt on her hubby's life is anything to go by." She grinned wryly.  
   
"Damn. This could be a simple matter, if only we could warn her. But Cassandra wouldn't listen to you because she doesn't know you; nor to me, because she knows me a tad too well," he dryly summed the problem up. He thought for a moment. "Maybe MacLeod... But I don't know where he's got himself to. I have been trying to reach him for days, as it happens. -- Listen, you better go and rake up Cassandra. Don't let her see you, unless she is in imminent danger."  
   
Diana smiled. "Don't worry. I'll guard her with my life but keep in the shadows."  
   
He wouldn't have ordered her to do as much, but he was glad to hear her say so. He caressed her cheek and smiled warmly. "Thank you."  
   
Swiftly she grabbed what few belongings she had brought and left Methos to ponder the unpredictability of coincidence. Hadn't he thought of Cassandra only two days ago, when he had looked up that entry about Diana? He glanced at the enormous leather-bound book that occupied a table of its own. He didn't have to take another look to remember clearly how that entry had started:  
   
   
_Diana is fun. Before Cassandra I never realized women could be a serious challenge. Yet they are such sport I haven't tired of them in all the years since. Ah, the memory of making her moan in spite of herself... how she loathed and loved me!  
   
Diana is very different: I do not have to overcome her loathing, but her obedience.  
_  
---  
   
   
He smiled. It had been a long way for him from Cassandra to Diana.    
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
  
   
_[Seacouver, at Joe's]_  
   
"Hi, Joe," a baritone voice called from the door.  
   
"Mac! Good to see ya! Where've you been hidin'?" He always was relieved to see the familiar dark head still attached to the muscular frame of Duncan MacLeod.  
   
The tall dark-haired man shook his head, smiling. "Business."  
   
"None of mine, you mean," Dawson chuckled. "Never mind that now. I've got some news for you."  
   
Duncan MacLeod eyed the two men that were sitting at the bar. Catching his eye, Joe took a bottle of Glenmorangie as well as two topplers in one hand and led the way to a table in a reasonably quiet corner. He was glad to sit down for a moment. The smoke in the bar hurt his eyes more than usual and a beginning headache was getting settled at the back of his skull. He had been missing out on his sleep too much lately, worrying.  
   
"Actually, I had a fight up in Schefferville," MacLeod explained of his own accord, as soon as they had sat down.  
   
The glasses clinked as Joe placed them on the well-worn wooden table-top. "That’s where Grace Chandler lives." Grace Chandler, now Isabelle Pontand, was an Immortal who spent most of her life helping others. A dark-haired beauty whose heart was as soft as her gentle features. Joe frequently found himself smiling benignly when he encountered her name somewhere or came across her Watcher file. Duncan had protected her before, Dawson knew.  
   
MacLeod nodded. "One of us was hunting her ... I finally managed to persuade her to practise with the sword every day at last. That's a relief. -- So what's new with you, Joe?"  
   
Joe poured drinks and sat one in front MacLeod. Sharing a serious glance, they downed their Glenmorangies.  
   
The whisky burned down his throat and momentarily relieved Joe of the dull pain in his head. But that only meant he found his news even harder to share. There was a long awkward silence until MacLeod nudged him. "You said you had news for me?"  
   
"It's about Methos." Given the things they had recently learned about Methos, Joe had prepared for a more emotional reaction, but MacLeod's face merely hardened. So Joe took the bull by the horns. "D’you think he'd kill Cassandra, after the way she attacked him?"  
   
"As things are now, I wouldn't put it past him. -- Anyhow, she wouldn't let him get near her."  
   
"That's just it." For a moment he shut his hurting eyes, before he continued, "I think he's sent his ex-slave after her."  
   
MacLeod did not reply, but he looked furious. The familiar angry pursing with the downward tug at the corners of his lips didn't soften while Joe showed him a picture of Diana and told him that she had been shadowing Cassandra for two days so far. "Where is she now?"  
   
As soon as Joe had described the hiding place in the outskirts of Las Vegas, Duncan slapped the table with his flat hand and left, muttering, "I'll see you, Joe."  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Half an hour later, MacLeod was hammering on Adam Pierson's door, heedless of the pain this caused in his knuckles. Moments later he realised that he couldn't sense the other Immortal as he normally would have. Apparently, Methos was not at home. He forced himself to calm down and think this over more methodically.  
   
_‘Do you know who I was? I was Death. Death. Death on a horse. When mothers warned their children that the monster would get them, that monster was me.’_ Duncan MacLeod looked pensive as he recalled these words, for the self-declared monster, Methos, had been his friend only a short while ago. Now he wasn't so sure. Leaving the place, he felt a tickling in his bruised knuckles as they healed. He looked at the back of his hand, deep in thought.  
   
Methos _HAD_ changed. He might be a royal pain often enough, but a murderer? And yet... When the Horsemen had been around, Methos had revealed a cold and manipulative mind that always went with the winner. He was a survivor by his own definition, and he might well feel endangered by Cassandra. And yet, hadn't Adam actually saved her life twice?  
   
Well, that had been _BEFORE_ she had almost killed him. And this was looking too suspicious by half. No, Duncan decided, he couldn't risk hoping that Adam just wanted to know how she was faring. He really had to stop him. Or his ex-slave, rather.  
   
It took MacLeod a couple of hours to reach Vegas. Judging it wiser to walk part of the way, he left his fairly conspicuous little T-bird in front of a near-by motel. Luckily he didn't have to go far, or he would have regretted it, wearing a long duster coat in this heat. With little difficulty he singled out the tall and shabby building among the many warehouses in the street. Dawson had told him there was a sign that said ‘Wilson Electronics’. There it was, held only by a loose screw in one corner.  
   
Approaching the side door, MacLeod was hit in the gut by the powerful sensation of an Immortal. He breathed deeply. His hands were sweaty with the heat. He rubbed them dry before he readied his katana, reassured by the touch of its well-worn handle, and then tried the door. It was unlocked. He threw it open.  
   
It wasn't Diana who now charged at him.  
   
"MacLeod!" Adam Pierson exclaimed, pulling the well-aimed blow of his Ivanhoe sword. "What are you doing here?"  
   
"Trying to stop you, what did _you_ think? You can't do this, Methos," he warned as they started circling each other.  
   
Pierson had his back to the front gate now. It opened to admit a young woman with short red hair and a stubby nose. "Domine, they are leaving," she said very quietly. Duncan barely heard it over the painful noise in his head that told him she was an Immortal.  
   
"Don't let him go," Adam ordered.  
   
She lifted her arm. MacLeod looked up in time to see the nuzzle of a gun spitting fire at him. Even as he moved to take cover he felt his body being hit and go limp. He saw Adam leave without looking back, then all went black around him.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
_[about 8 hours later]_  
   
Adam Pierson sounded disquieted when he phoned Diana the next morning. "How's the prisoner?"  
   
"Angry and disbelieving," she informed him concisely.  
   
She had spent almost two hours trying to convince MacLeod that they were in fact trying to protect Cassandra, not to kill her. However, the more she had insisted, the less he had believed her. So she had finally told him, "Well, then think what you like. I won't touch the matter again." They had barely spoken since, even when she had fed him and -- obviously to his intense embarrassment -- had calmly helped him go to the loo without opening the shackles that captured his hands behind his back.  
   
Now he was sitting quietly, probably trying to free himself. Well, let him try.  
   
She shut her cell-phone. "I'm very sorry, I have to leave. You should have believed me, you know?" She went to the door, then suddenly turned around to shoot him again.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Several hours later, on the highway to Las Vegas]_  
   
Joe Dawson was wondering if he had gone for the right choice, while he got out of his van and entered a petrol station. Again his legs had begun to hurt, and his head had joined in. Driving so far in this heat with the cooling system in his vehicle needing repair wasn't doing him any good.  
   
And it didn't exactly help not to be sure if he should have come, either. After all, Methos was one manipulating son of a b... And it _had_ been Methos who had called Dawson a couple of hours earlier and had coolly informed him that Duncan needed his help in Vegas. Then he had hung up without leaving him a chance to ask questions.  
   
Joe had finally decided to go, and here he was, his amputated legs hurting, his mouth parched and his spirits low. What help could he provide, anyway? He bought a large bottle of water, drank deeply, walked around a bit and drove off again.  
   
Half an hour later he entered the long, straight street full of ugly unused warehouses. He found the derelict building. It looked as if it might collapse any moment. Seeing that the sign "Wilson Electronics" was dangling perilously just above the front entrance he decided to try the side door first. It was shut. Joe went back to the front. He took a deep breath before he leaned against the tall gate. It gave way unwillingly and rolled only a few inches to the side with a painfully creaking noise. He pushed at it in a sudden rush of anger and this time it opened far enough for him to walk through comfortably.  
   
The first thing he saw was the body of a tall muscular man lying curled up on the floor, bound and sickeningly still. It seemed the body had been propped against a wall and had fallen over. Judging by the trickles of blood on the back of the shirt...  
"Dear God," he whispered, trying to fight down the tears that were hampering his sight as realisation filled his mind with horror. He hurried over as quickly as his prosthetics would allow.  
   
He stopped short.  
   
Duncan was dead, yes. But not for good.  
   
Dawson let out a deep breath. "Thanks," he said to nobody in particular. He walked closer and saw that the body's wrists were constrained by metal shackles. He looked around if he could find anything he could use to try and pick the locks. But there was no need: there were keys on a dusty, three-legged table.  
   
He opened the shackles. Then he sat on the floor beside MacLeod to free his legs, which had been bound tightly.  
   
Suddenly he felt some kind of ... energy. Or was that a noise? Startled, he looked at the body beside him. It convulsed, arched, stretched, all at the same time... MacLeod drew a laboured breath.  
   
Joe swallowed. He had seen Immortals revive a few times already, but never this close. Even when he’d watched Richie return to life several months ago, he hadn’t been quite this close. From afar it had already amazed him. To be close at hand like in Richie’s case had been an even more stunning experience. But this... This was indescribable. He hadn’t _seen_ Mac come to life, he had _felt_ him return.  
"Welcome back," he smiled quietly.  
   
"Good to see you, Joe," Duncan grinned self-consciously. Instead of asking any questions, he said, "Come on, I'll buy you lunch," while he shed the last bit of binding rope.  
   
To his obvious frustration he discovered little later that his car was gone.  
   
"So that's the help you need -- he meant you need a ride," Joe concluded. He, too, would have enjoyed riding in Duncan’s black Thunderbird, with the wind cooling his aching head.  
   
"Who?"  
   
"Methos. He called to say you needed me here." Again disconcerting second thoughts rose in his mind.  
   
"Well, I sure did. Thanks for coming." Duncan turned to give Dawson a warm smile. Then his tone switched from sincere to cheerful. "Now let's get that lunch, shall we?"  
   
Joe admitted he could use one. He'd certainly need to eat something before he could do anything about that splitting headache. He asked MacLeod to drive the van so that he could call the Watchers on the way. However, the call didn't go too well. It would take an hour or two until Cassandra's or Diana's Watcher could be contacted. When MacLeod told him in brief words about his discussions with Diana, that didn't exactly make him feel better, even though it ignited a spark of hope.  
   
Their arrival in front of a high-class hotel interrupted Duncan's account. They got out of the overheated car and gladly slipped into the quiet cool of the hotel.  
Duncan treated Joe to a delicious lunch of roast beef with horseradish, saying that he owed him that much at least. Thankfully Joe noticed that the horseradish helped clear his head somewhat. Unfortunately, though, the room was full of guests, even though it was quite late for lunching. So talking shop would have to wait.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


  
_[Las Vegas, nearly an hour later]_   
   
They were entering the hotel's luxurious bar to follow the dinner up with a drink and a private chat.  
   
The bar offered some twenty cosy alcoves that allowed you to rest your back against an x-shaped island of plants while watching water flow down two tall blue and green glass-walls.  (2) The only thing that disturbed the peace and the sweet tinkling sound-carpet from the water was the large TV-set that was fitted into a plastic grotto covered in artificial ivy. Not surprisingly, the alcoves facing it were empty.  
   
The two men were just turning away to find some other seats, when Dawson's ears picked up the name of the woman Diana had mentioned, according to Duncan: he wheeled around sharply, stumbling over his own prosthetics, and dropped into a nearby alcove. When MacLeod glanced back, he only saw Dawson stumble while on TV the announcer named some items the news show would be about. He sat beside his friend solicitously. "Are you okay, Dawson?"  
  
"Yah, I'm fine. Gotta watch the news" was the oddly preoccupied answer he got.  
   
MacLeod shrugged and shut up.  
   
Less than a minute later his patience was rewarded: "The hostage in Our Lady of Las Vegas Catholic School(3) has ended peacefully in a spectacular escape," the announcer said. "This morning an unnamed group of armed women took charge of the school, demanding that Canadian psychotherapist and multiple NGO-member Isabelle Pontand come negotiate."  
   
MacLeod stirred when Grace Chandler's gentle features appeared on the screen behind the announcer. He felt queasy as the picture came alive: "The woman I talked to, some Ms. Petrova, knew exactly what she wanted: a nation-wide school program for dyslexic children. That's fair enough, isn't it? Of _course_ I had no problem talking to her! That they all escaped shows this was a pretty rational PR thing, really." She was right, he thought grimly.  
   
She walked away from the journalists and entered a small aircraft. Good. At least Grace was safe. Meanwhile, the journalist that had interviewed her took over: "What seems irrational, though, is the fact that the leader of these gangsters calls herself Courla Petrova. The true Courla Petrova, a science teacher at the MIT, died in prison only a very few days ago. So either this woman is lying -- or she is deluded..."  
   
In silence, Joe and Duncan exchanged a glance that said: "Or she is, as we know, an Immortal."  
   
MacLeod commented sourly: "That girl said ‘It seems Petrova's gone mad.’ -- But coming from a young Immortal, all that sounds quite reasonable."  
   
A moment later, Joe's cell-phone rang. The call was brief, but obviously informative, for Dawson took notes. At length he asked if the caller knew an Immortal called Courla Petrova. He waited for a while. At length he looked up at MacLeod, pursed his upper lip, his moustache looking whiter and even more bristly, and shook his head. With a curt "Thanks" he rang off. His startlingly bright blue-grey eyes focused on MacLeod. "I know where exactly Cassandra is now. Diana must still be shadowing her, because her car hasn't moved." He shook his head and scowled. "This isn't looking too good, is it?"  
   
MacLeod drew a deep sad breath. Then he slowly nodded. "I need to talk to Cassandra."  
   
"Will she listen?"  
   
"I don't know. But I gotta try."  
   
"It's not far, she's in Red Rock Canyon. I'll take you there."  
   
They spoke little during the hour of driving steadily west. When they arrived at a parking lot in the Red Rock Canyon, they saw Duncan’s own black Thunderbird among the few vehicles that were waiting here at this hour. Without mentioning that this might mean Methos was here, Joe nodded toward it.  
   
MacLeod nodded and smiled wryly: "You don't have to wait for me."  
   
Like so many times before, Joe proved a loyal friend once again. He grinned back, pretending that he couldn't sense the tension Duncan felt. "I'm your Watcher, remember? I'm supposed to stick around."  
   
MacLeod touched his shoulder and nodded his thanks at him while he got out of the van to follow the hiking trail among the bare rocks.  
   
To his surprise he didn't have to go very far before the familiar sensation of an approaching Immortal spread along his skull like a painfully loud noise. As always the cold hand of fear gripped him, and as always he fought it down by drawing a deep breath and slowly releasing it. Whoever was going to come around the next bend, MacLeod was ready.  
   
It was Cassandra.  
   
She was not alone. A worried-looking policewoman was walking behind her. When they met him, Cassandra addressed him at last: "I see a warning in your eyes. Tell me." At his glance at the police officer she added, "Sie kann ein bißchen Gälisch; Red einfach Deutsch mit mir." (4)  
   
"I'm not really sure which warning that ought to be..." he replied, smoothly slipping into the German language. "I guess it's about Methos."  
   
Angrily she moved on, passing him. "You asked too much when you asked for his life, Duncan MacLeod."  
   
In a low, troubled voice he conceded: "You may be right."  
   
Taken by surprise, she stopped to face him again. "What?"  
   
"Listen, are you going anywhere?" he switched back to English. "You could come with me and Joe."  
   
"No," she refused flatly. "The police car is faster." That was not entirely true, but he did not contradict. Having to continue speaking German was a minor inconvenience.  
   
While he rode in the back of the police car with her, he told Cassandra all he knew from beginning to end. Several times she seemed about to interrupt him, but she let him talk, and even after he had finished she still didn't speak.  
  


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Southern Nevada Women's Correctional Facility (5) in Las Vegas, a few hours earlier]_  
   
"You, get up! Let the floor-cloth lie, you won't need that now. And _DON'T_ touch that mop!" Diana, disguised as a charwoman, had no chance of getting at the three heavily armed women before she'd be shot. The women were mortals but since their Immortal leader might turn up at any moment, it was better to stay alive and alert. So she just made sure she looked frightened and weak before she faced them fully. The women formed a triangle in the centre of which she had to come along. Diana noticed how the women in front kept glancing back from the corner of their eye, and how they maintained just the right distance to her even when she slowed down. Within a few minutes she'd mentally classified them as experienced fighters.  
   
They reached the large workroom of the three crafts a special reintegration program offered to the women incarcerated here. Now the prisoners were sitting on the floor along two walls, side by side with their wardens. Diana was told to join them. She sat, deeply relieved not to have encountered any Immortal so far. She wondered where Petrova might be.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
Actually, Courla Petrova was only just outside the reach of Diana's Immortal sensory, in the prison's main office, two stories above and closer to the prison's front than the work-room. At the moment she was sitting at the computer and ordering pizza and gallons of water for her team, her captives and the police officers outside. After all, it might well sway the officers out there in her favour for a bit.  
   
The pizza service had a webcam, so she could watch the delivery being prepared and get a good look at the delivery boy, as well. She grinned and captured his countenance in a screen shot. Then she sent the picture to the police in an email that told them to let the kid come to the prison's door and inquired whether they'd located the negotiator she had asked for.  
   
Half an hour later the pizza arrived together with the message that the police were on the way to Red Rock Canyon to get the negotiator. She paid the delivery boy, adding a handsome tip and sent him to take half the delivery to the officers outside. Then she had her only guard bring the rest to the workroom.  
   
Biting into her own slice of pizza and savouring salami, olives and melted cheese, she told the police via mail:  
   
   
_Look, I can wait, and for the prisoners there's not much of a difference; it's the wardens that are getting impatient. :-)  
PS: Hope you like pizza -- I thought I’d save the donuts for the next time. ;-)  
_  
---  
   
   
Another hour later, a dusty police-car drew up in front of the prison. It was watched closely, not only by Courla Petrova and the police, but also by a dark-haired person disguising both anger and determination while stepping closer.  
   
When MacLeod emerged behind Cassandra, the person moved back into the shadows very quickly, though. The movement was seen only by Joe Dawson who had followed the police-car and was just getting out of his van. He looked very worried, indeed. And so, he noticed, did MacLeod. He decided to leave MacLeod where he was for the moment and follow the person in the short olive coat.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Rome, in the year of the Consules Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus  
and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives, 684]_  
   
Tullius Auratus was sitting in the garden of the peristylium, Diana kneeling in the grass beside his stone bench, as a slave approached and knelt before his master.  
   
He did not look up and spoke in so low a voice that Diana only caught a few words. Apparently, he was responsible for the horses. One of them had been stolen overnight and he was here to receive his punishment.  
   
"What am I to do with you, Laetus?" Tullius asked plaintively. "First you lose my property, and now you ask me to use my time to damage another being I own, practically a part of the family." He touched the slave’s naked shoulder. "You really should do your duty instead of causing me loss."  
   
"I’m sorry," the slave answered hoarsely.  
   
"So, how many?"  
   
"Thirty, domine."  
   
Diana was impressed. Thirty strokes were enough to weaken even a strong man considerably. She would have expected the slave to ask for twenty at the very most, or perhaps to beg for mercy. Instead, he addressed her humbly, "Would you be good enough to bind me?" He looked positively frightened and his voice was shaking with ill-disguised fear.  
   
Tullius told her to oblige and to then go and bring him the whip.  
   
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
   
As far as Diana could make out, her master seemed to be truly a much loved pater familias to his slaves. He even taught them to fight in his leisure time, training them here in the garden, irrespective of age or sex. In fact, she could still feel the sore muscles their lesson this morning had given her. Each of his slaves as well as the one or two servants would have willingly laid down their life for him. In her opinion Tullius’ house thus was perhaps the safest of the district.  
  
Even though Diana was only just beginning to understand the subtle gestures that made him a successful leader -- like his ordering _her_ to count the strokes as he dealt them now, or his commending Laetus on bearing the punishment well -- , she already admired him for that trait.  
   
   
It took almost 11 years for her to dare ask him early one morning:    
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
_[Rome, in the year of the Consules Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus and Gaius Julius Caesar, 695 (6)]_  
   
"Why do you often punish slaves yourself? Why not leave the exertion to your major domus?" She had entered the atrium to carry the whip back to its proper place. She had found it in the garden, where it had been put to use earlier in the day. At length Tullius Auratus had taken notice and permitted her to utter the question that had been on display in her features.  
   
His answer was, "Because it is fun. And my slaves have to fear _me_ , not my major domus." He was sitting down, so she could not see his face, and it was impossible to tell from his tone of voice whether or not he was being serious.  
   
Therefore Diana tried to retreat to a safer topic. "Your slaves _love_ you, domine."  
   
"They would love me less if they didn’t fear me, as well, girl," he kindly replied. "I offer each of you a simple choice: obedience and labour under my care or punishment and hard toil. You seem to appreciate that."  
   
Even though her head was bowed, her eyes barely noted the colourful intricacy of the stone floor mosaic they beheld. "It’s more than that, domine," she remarked quietly.  
   
With a strange fierceness he countered, "Yes, there is more to it than that. You love me because I am alive, strong, and able to protect you, among other things. You love me because I do the ‘right’ things, from your point of view. But you, Diana, may love me less very soon."  
   
She had started when he had begun to voice his opinion so hotly, but now she looked up at him calmly. "I doubt that, domine. There are too many reasons to love you." Suddenly shy, she let her gaze fall to the ground again. Was it, perhaps, a little insolent of her to speak of love? The kind of love that she felt?  
   
Maybe it was, for he dropped the subject. "Do you remember my asking you at which age a woman is strongest? What was your answer?"  
   
She remembered well. The question still puzzled her. "Around 25 years, domine."  
   
"Now that you are twenty-five yourself, is your answer still the same?"  
   
She dared not bite her lip, knowing that he would have seen it. "Yes, domine." Hearing herself as she spoke, though, she realised that her tone had given her away, anyhow.  
   
He smiled. "Are you quite sure? No second thoughts? Ought I to sell you next year, then?"  
   
"If you wish for a stronger woman," she confirmed sadly, "yes." Despite herself, she felt tears in her eyes.  
   
Tullius laughed. "No. You will do nicely." Thankfully, she sank on her knees to kiss his hand. He withdrew it too quickly, however, and instead lifted her chin, with fingers that felt cold and hard against her skin. He observed her with a thoughtful look that lasted disquietingly long. Yes, it must have been insolent to speak of love. But he did not say so.  
   
At long last, he told her to find him a good knife and a cloth and to meet him in the atrium in a moment. A strange command, she deemed, but it was not her place to question it, or to ask for its reason.  
   
He turned abruptly, and left her kneeling there.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Half an hour later, Diana was following her master through a street filled with stores. He stopped and, telling the slave to wait, entered the shop of a tailor and cloth-seller. It was still quite early, but the sun-rays were strong already. The longer she stood there, the more noticeable the heat became.  
   
The purchase having been added to the contents in Tullius’ woollen bag, they continued toward the city wall. They stopped by one of the many small street shops selling the Roman sort of fast food, predominantly consisting of small meat pies. Here he bought food for both of them. Its smell accompanied them, as he proceeded to supply them with a little wine, bread and fruit. Finally they made for a stable by a city gate where Tullius kept some of his horses.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
They hadn’t ridden long, the sun had barely moved since they had left the security of the city. Now they were getting off the horse on one of the hills surrounding it. It offered grass and the shadow of a little wood for the animal as well as a spring that just allowed for the fruit to be cooled. Diana drank from it thirstily, after placing fruit and wine in a little pool of cool water.  
   
Tullius Auratus dropped onto the grass. "Come, Diana, sit with me."  
   
She did, offering her lap as a convenient cushion for his head. He made himself comfortable.  
   
"Domine..." she began after a while, breaking off uncertainly. One of her old failings: she was too impatient sometimes. A slave was expected to wait in silence. She had thought she had learned that by now.  
   
"Speak freely." As usual, the assurance in his voice seemed to reverberate huskily throughout his whole body.  
   
Well, if he permitted it: "May I ask if we are waiting for something?"  
   
He grinned up at her. "We are waiting for our bodies to be inspired by the sun, the cool breeze, the gurgling water and, above all, each other."  
   
The look he gave her was a challenge and did not fail to inspire her, indeed. Nor did the thought of just how well he knew both her body and her desires. Or the way one of his hands nudged her knee. She grinned back, noticing a pleasant pulsing in her loins, and leaned over the fair-skinned man sprawling in the grass.  
   
Softly she kissed the vulnerable skin on the side of his neck and whispered, "I hope I still inspire you."  
  
As if he had waited for that cue, he stood and drew her up. His fingers had warmed up by now. They slid down her body, raised her skirt and very slowly undressed her.  
   
Then he sat, and Diana followed his example, although the wind had felt good, cooling her hot bare skin a little. "Stand," he commanded. His gaze travelled up and down her body, now and then lingering lovingly on a detail. She felt as though he watched her not so much with his eyes, but in a deeper, more forgiving way.  
   
"Turn," he ordered, again monosyllabic, in a husky tone of voice.  
   
Again he observed her at his leisure for quite a while.  
   
Suddenly he was behind her. His arms held hers, immobilised them, while his mouth showered red-hot kisses on her nape and shoulder. A few unruly stubbles that the barber had overlooked beneath his clean-shaven chin scraped over her skin as he did so. "You inspire me more than ever, Diana," Tullius murmured in her ear. He kissed her ear-lobe; his tongue darted out to caress the delicate skin around the ear. She could hear it turn the tiny hairs there, startlingly loud.  
   
His lips were drawn over the nape of her neck and wandered further down, his breath hot and moist against her skin.  
   
When he touched the scars on her back, she froze. She had all but forgotten them. Marks of her failings. Marks of not having done the one honourable thing a slave could achieve. Marks of not having made her owners happy.  
   
Tullius asked softly, "Am I hurting you?"  
   
"No," she answered in a small voice.  
   
"Still feeling ashamed of these?" she felt his finger trail carefully along one of her scars.  
   
She nodded.  
   
"Don’t think about it."  
   
"I can’t help it... I ..."  
   
"They will disappear, you will see. Don’t think about it," he repeated. "Think about the caress, instead." Holding and stroking her, he proceeded to kiss down the length of her back.  
   
She tried to follow his advice and gradually relaxed. Her fists however, kept out of his sight, were still clenched in the effort.  
   
"Beautiful," he murmured reverently and kissed the small of her back, then her nape again.  
   
His knees dug into hers from behind and made her kneel unexpectedly, while his hands kept roaming freely.  
   
Diana’s breath had changed meanwhile, it felt hot against her half-closed lips. She had closed her eyes and was only skin and touch; All she knew right now was that the cooling breeze, the sun-rays, and Tullius’ hands and mouth were all caressing her simultaneously. For this brief moment her master chose to make her the centre of his world.  
   
He cupped her breasts, massaging them. Their light touch tickling slightly, his fingertips glided over her stomach, her belly, her hip, her pubic hair, as her master knelt behind her. Now that her hands were free, she reached back to hold on to him and caress him in return.  
   
The sheer intensity with which he always made love literally took her breath away at times. His concentrated closeness made her skin tingle, her muscles twitch, and her heart change its rhythm.  
   
It was still beyond her why Aulus Tullius Auratus, an eques of quite some standing and military merit, should care whether or not a mere slave enjoyed sleeping with him as he might with his wife. (Not to mention why, rich and respected as he was, he still wasn’t married.)  
   
But take care that she enjoyed, beyond all measure she had thought possible before she knew him, was exactly what he chose to do. His fingers closed around her love lips and rubbed them against each other. Again she caught her breath, hardly daring to move for fear he might stop. She heard him chuckle softly at the low, barely audible moan that came from inside her throat, when he manipulated her private parts more and more intensely until it almost hurt.  
   
Along with his ministrations, her breath grew deeper and more intense, as well. She let him hear what he was doing to her, since he loved rousing her so. Finally, she gave in to her need and groaned, "Have mercy, domine. Please, take me."  
   
With gentle, easy movements he forced her to bend forward and entered her. And stopped moving.  
   
When she tried to take over, he forbade her that, as well, with a teasing "Uh-uh." He made her wait, helplessly, for what seemed like an eternity. A delicious eternity of yearning.  
   
Then he leaned forward and reached around her again. Once more he teased her with experienced hands, until finally she bucked like a horse, a victim to his skill. He laughed, and began to move his hips. He teased her for a little longer, but little by little a slow powerful rhythm took hold of both of them and led them to utter throaty moans. As the sun moved over the sky, their moans slowly turned into ecstatic noises, barely recognisable as cries of pleasure.  
   
Finally they both cried out once more, in unison, and fell over, spent and contented.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Tullius reached for his bag, caressing Diana’s shoulder in passing, and retrieved the knife.  
   
He turned away from the slave, who was dressing again, to inspect the fruit they had bought earlier. She could see from the corner of her eye how his right hand played with the knife. The motions had that absent-minded quality which only a very dexterous and skilled man could afford when handling a knife.  
   
Then, quite suddenly, he jerked it back, pulling it straight into Diana’s chest. Her eyes widened with a turmoil of surprise, fear, pain,... Her mouth quivered, but no sound came. It hurt! It hurt dreadfully! And why...?  
   
He caught her falling body, caressed her cheek and smiled. "Don’t be afraid." His voice seemed to drift away, as he continued, "I won’t let you suffer." With that, he thrust the blade even deeper and into her heart. The pain was sharp and endless, and infinite cold enshrouded her. Everything was growing cold and dull... numb ...  
   
   
Darkness.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Finally, her eyes broke, and Tullius dropped the dead body to make himself comfortable.  
   
Hours later her body had finished mending itself, and Diana suddenly drew her first breath as an Immortal. Her body convulsed, as her empty lungs filled themselves laboriously.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Breathing HURT.  
   
Diana regained consciousness, frightened, in pain and disoriented. Her eyes flew open.  
   
"Stay calm, my dear. There is nothing to be afraid of," a familiar voice addressed her from behind.  
   
She thought she sensed some sort of imminent danger behind her back. It was an almost physical sensation that reverberated inside her skull. Feeling both drowsy and on alert, she clumsily sat up and turned, retreating a little. She was crouching like a hunted animal now.  
   
Tullius Auratus was sprawling in the grass. Beside him sat the woollen bag and the small amphora with wine they had brought, now opened. "Breathe. Slowly," he advised.  
   
She tried to do as he said, but fear still encircled her chest with metallic chill. Her lungs wouldn’t open up as fully to the fresh air as they should. Her owner’s countenance reminded her of something... something that hovered at the back of her mind and wouldn’t come out. A fearsome memory.  
   
"I killed you, Diana."  
   
Yes, it was true. Her clothes were bloody. And...  
   
_No, stupid!_ It couldn’t be true. She was alive; there was not so much as a scratch beneath the bloody, torn cloth!  
   
_... more cut than torn..._  
   
No again. She distinctly remembered now: the knife being buried in her body...  
   
Hurt and puzzlement forming a choking lump in her throat, she asked Tullius, "How could this be?"  
   
"Come here," he answered in a neutral voice.  
   
The sense of danger grew even stronger, rumbling darkly in her guts, but she obeyed even so. While she did, he dug into the woollen bag, retrieved the cloth and wet it. Slowly he undressed the young woman, rubbing clean every bit of skin as it was exposed. She stood quite still, though her heart was still pounding, its sound filling her ears. All the same, she noticed, the fear that had been hammering against her spine and skull was beginning to subside.  
   
"This is your blood," his voice penetrated the noise in her ears, "the best proof that I am telling you the truth. The Gods have given you a great gift: You, like me, cannot die. Unless you are decapitated." He was behind her now. Out of nowhere, his knife appeared beneath her chin. "Guard your neck well."  
   
The girl froze, the recent memory of the blade entering her body stabbed at her.  
   
"I told you you might love me less soon," Tullius remarked conversationally.  
   
But Diana looked up sharply and stated, "I do not love you any less, domine." Looking up, she noticed absently that now the sun was much nearer the horizon than she recalled. Tullius must have waited several hours for her to come alive.  
   
The knife disappeared swiftly, in an almost impatient gesture. "You need not call me domine anymore. You are free."  
   
Bright tears welled up in her eyes. "Please, tell me, what have I done that you wish to get rid of me? That you would kill me? Even _free_ me to be rid of me?" There could be no other reason, could there?  
   
"My dear stupid girl. I said ‘you are free’, not ‘Get lost’!" he reprimanded her calmly. "You have served me well. And..." -- he reached into the woollen bag again and gave her a parcel -- "... this is for you."  
   
She opened the string that held the fabric together and uttered a surprised hiss. "Domine, this is too good for me!" It was a plain white robe made of linen. Decidedly not a slave’s dress.  
   
He smiled. "Do you accept the gift? Then put it on."  
   
"How could I not?" Happily she slipped into the dress.  
   
"Wait!" he stopped her. He drew the dress out of his way and again touched her back. Lightly. Softly. "Can you feel it?"  
   
Yes, there was a marked difference. She could feel ... too much. Too clearly, too undisturbed. It was as though no ripples broke her skin, no sc... Could this be?  
   
She reached for her back, frantically trying to find the scars that had marred it for the most part of her life.  
   
But her fingers encountered only smooth soft skin, stretched taught over muscle and ribs. "They are gone, the scars are gone, domine!?"  
   
"Yes. Gone for good. You will never have scars again. Your injuries will heal too quickly."  
   
As she took in this announcement, she felt something rise from deep inside, until the laughter of sheer happiness brimmed over. She turned and threw herself into his arms.  
   
A moment later she realized she had been too overjoyed to show the proper respect to her master. She knelt and apologized.  
   
He chuckled. "Do it again, in that spirit, anytime. When we are alone."  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Back in Las Vegas]_  
   
Diana came out of her reverie when suddenly a cell-phone rang. One of the hostage-takers took the call. She nodded and with a laconic "Understood" rang off.  
   
The woman looked up and yelled "Up, up, up! Get up! Turn to your neighbour on the right. You face her backside now. Put your hands on her shoulders, arms outstretched. Now get moving! This way!"  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
   
_[Less than a hundred yards away, at the same time]_  
   
Courla Petrova was descending the stairs from the main office. The plan was laid out clearly in her mind, each part as clear-cut as the bare concrete steps beneath her feet. She was well-prepared for the finale. For one thing, she had taken great care to let everybody think she was some kind of modern Robin Hood. This image was now firmly established in the minds of her own team, the reporters, the police and surely also Cassandra's.  
   
Cassandra's trust was essential. Soon she’d know if she had it: if Cassandra shook her hand, all was well. If she didn't... Well, then one would have to wait a little longer. Gaia would surely be forgiving.  
   
She stepped off the last step and rubbed her palms together to warm her fingers. Her left hand was cold from having held on to the iron hand rail.  
   
No, there would be no problem. All the details had been thought of: The weapon had been concealed near the door, so she could even let Cassandra search her before the shake-hands. The prisoners were back in their cells, their wardens on their way out through a tunnel system; they'd be released at a pre-determined highway station by Courla's team. Also, she had checked and re-checked that Cassandra was not, like herself, left-handed.  
   
All she now had to do was to admit this woman into the prison's lobby. Then shake hands and simultaneously, with her left, grab the blade she had hidden there. She could see it now, properly disguised as part of a wall ornament, just where it was supposed to be. With that element of surprise on her side, it would be an easy kill, despite the skills Cassandra had acquired in her very long life.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Finally the expected sensation of nearing an Immortal began to reverberate in her guts, spreading out and rising along her spine to the top of her head. While she got to the bottom of the stairs, it faded a little as she got used to the other Immortal's proximity.  
   
Slowly she opened the front door. She gave Cassandra a charming smile and let her enter. "Cassandra. I'm not sure you remember me: I am Courla Petrova." Her voice had not carried any hint of hatred, had it? Well, add some more sugar coating for good measure. "Thanks for coming. It’s good to see you."  
   
When Cassandra took the proffered hand, Petrova suddenly felt a ripple go through the woman's body even while she herself was already raising and swinging her weapon.  
   
To her utter confusion the crude blade encountered thin air!  
   
She lost her balance as her victim ducked and suddenly all that had put her in a superior position turned into a disadvantage. Previously her weapon's shape had hidden it -- now it rendered it a little unwieldy. Cassandra elbowed her and at the same moment a sharp pain cut into her right wrist. She glanced down at it -- it wasn't hurt, but Cassandra had manoeuvred it into such an odd angle that she had to let go of her opponent.  
   
She jumped back and stormed at Cassandra in a fierce silent attack, but her blade was met with surprisingly strong blows of Cassandra's sword that had appeared out of nowhere, it seemed.  
   
"Why?" Cassandra asked, strangely calm.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
In front of the prison, MacLeod was watching the two women with baited breath. He could not go and intervene now. Even if there hadn't been a host of policemen around, the rules of Immortality did not allow for it. Besides, there was no knowing whom his presence might affect more. Actually, the same applied to the marksman who was now kneeling to aim at Petrova through the glass-doors with its sturdy steel bars right now. MacLeod was debating with himself whether or not he should try and distract the man. Perhaps it would not be necessary: The sharpshooter had already sighed repeatedly as the two women kept circling each other.  
   
Suddenly MacLeod felt an approaching Immortal. He turned around warily and caught sight of Methos, who was just thrusting his olive coat at Joe angrily. Then he strode over to an officer near Duncan, indicated the marksman and asked: "Excuse me, but can you actually be sure the doors aren't bullet-proof or something?" The man's eyes grew large and round as the impact of this sunk in. He turned and strode away to stop the marksman until he had found out.  
   
MacLeod sighed when his and Methos' eyes met. He nodded. At least they had bought Cassandra a little more time free of distraction. There was no knowing in whose favour, but it was the only thing they could do and at the moment she seemed to have the upper hand.  
   
Now the women were talking, still rounding each other. Maybe Cassandra could talk the woman into giving up.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
"I need your gifts," Courla Petrova explained as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  
   
"You think you'd get my abilities as a witch through my death? Don't hope for it, you fool!"  
   
"Gaia will make sure I get them and destroy those lousy bastards," Petrova screamed, starting to attack in something closely resembling a tantrum.  
   
Cassandra had a hard time meeting all the blows quickly and strongly enough. They left her too little time and strength to divert part of her mind on attacking by magic as she otherwise might have. "Gaia?" she provoked her opponent. "You haven't even met her, young cub. Why would Gaia help you?"  
   
"Men betray women, men betray the earth, men betray Gaia, forever -- that cycle must end. The time has come! With your and Kantos' gifts I will be ready to be her warrior. You didn't want to teach me, and now Gaia will punish you for your arrogance."  
   
By the look in her eyes, this was a full-fledged madwoman, not just someone with a mild delusion, Cassandra at last realised. To treat her gently was now impossible, for she had been challenged. "I couldn't teach you, you don't have that talent," she replied matter-of-factly, more to herself than her attacker. Petrova appeared to be beyond grasping her point.  
   
She decided against mentioning that Courla had always hovered on the brink that divides genius and madness.  
   
Even so, her words triggered another onslaught, and again she felt the fear rise within her when blow after blow the strength of sheer madness attacked not only her body but also her empathic self. She hardened her heart and threw the fear back at Petrova. "Courla, stop it!" The order was not only directed at the blows of the sword but also at the mental images she was somehow receiving from the woman. They were hateful, and painful. The woman wished for Cassandra's death, and for MacLeod's. But there was more...  
   
Cassandra endured the strain, hoping that the pictures would help her in fending Petrova off.  
   
She continued to parry, slash, dodge, parry again... Petrova was young, yes, a mere 250 or so years old, but so far she had shown no weakness. She fought, quite literally, like a madwoman. She was driving Cassandra backwards, further into the prison and up the stairs. The mad light in her eyes began to glow brighter, and a furious mass of mental images flooded her mind. Herself, dying. Men of all ages, sneering and then frightened as Petrova moved to kill them. Death all over the...  
   
Then, quite suddenly, it was over.  
   
Cassandra was still bent on surviving, on disregarding a sharp pain in her arm and meeting the next blow, when she realised that, all of a sudden, the onslaught at her mind was over. Only then did she notice that she had in fact killed Courla Petrova.  
   
She sighed relief and dropped her sword.  
   
Slowly understanding what had happened, Cassandra relished the all-too-short moment of respite before some essence of her attacker would be transferred to herself. She breathed.  
   
Apparently Petrova had misjudged a blow and had only cut Cassandra's left arm instead of taking her head as intended. Cassandra's sword had come up to meet the crude blade and had only encountered the soft flesh and the tissue between two vertebrae of her neck.  
   
Ah, she felt a wind rise -- it was beginning already.  
   
Small bolts of electricity flashed from the beheaded body.  
   
A bigger one hit Cassandra’s shoulder, sizzling on her skin as it danced up to her neck.  
   
Then the electric bolts began to lash out in earnest, catching the ancient Immortal woman in the familiar whirl of wind and primal energy that made the world seem to spin about her while her limbs shook and moved involuntarily. Her wound hurt every time the torn muscle fibres twitched. There was nothing she could do about it. But worse than this, her mind was filled with the alien thoughts of Courla Petrova. Pain and anger and helplessness were seeking release. Unruly emotions rebelled against her efforts to integrate them.  
   
Anger at a man’s betrayal. A man one had believed in. It should have felt closer to home. It shouldn’t be so easily reconciled. And yet she had bridled the pictures swarming into her head already. Electric bolts still discharged along the neon lights above her, they jerked her arms up and held her strung out until the fit-like experience died down and left her weak, in pain and defenceless for a few moments. But by now she had made Petrova a, to her, harmless part of herself with little more effort than usual. Considerably more pain, though.  
   
Now that the pain in her soul subsided, she grew aware of her body again. She had dropped on her knees and finally fell forward, only just catching herself with her arms. Every single bone, sinew or muscle in her body seemed to hurt. There was no strength left in her. To draw breath after breath was all she could do.  
   
Helpless in her exhaustion, she remembered the last person she had seen in exactly this position: Methos. He had been on all fours, much like she was herself now. At the time she had been ready to kill him, and if it hadn't been for MacLeod she would have. Methos had been crying, "I killed Silas. I _liked_ Silas." In fact, he had stopped Silas from killing Cassandra.  
   
Angrily she had asked if he felt that gave him any right to live. She had thought not. Not after the things he had once done to her, over two thousand years ago. She had wanted revenge.  
   
But not so now. As she thought back, she saw only the man broken down, weeping for his friend -- not the cruel torturer.  
   
How much did those two, the man broken down and the cruel torturer, still have in common? And what about the man that had tricked MacLeod into fearing for her enough to come here? After all, something like that had to have happened, considering Methos’ devious way of thinking.  
   
If he still thought that way today.  
   
She sighed.  
   
Wearily she got up and made her way downstairs to the lobby to find the monitors that would no doubt show pictures from surveillance cameras. She carefully watched the monitors, but they showed no activity at all. Apparently Petrova's henchwomen had left the building already.  
   
Cassandra left, as well, and approached MacLeod who was waiting with the police outside. Tiredly she sank against his shoulder. Suddenly sobs began to shake her drained body. She was exceedingly thankful for Duncan's embrace and the unusual restraint the police were showing.  
A moment later she regained enough of her self-control to turn the officers a tear-stained face: "She left me no choice but to kill her." She was so tired. Was there anything else she had to say? Oh, yes, of course. "I’ve no idea how I did that. Or why she brought that iron thing..." She shrugged, thinking that this should suffice to fend off most of the questions. Was there anything else? Oh, the prison! "I think you can go in safely now. I looked, and..." She swallowed, praying that they would all disappear into the building in a hurry, "... and I saw nobody ... I suppose they are all gone."  
   
Men ran past her, people shouted commands. In the tumult they were pushed away from the building, and Duncan drew her to Joe Dawson’s car. Mercifully, they escaped attention. At last.  
   


   
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_[Seacouver, at Joe's, modern day]_  
   
Humour shone in his eyes, as Joe greeted Methos.  
   
At his casual "Hi, old man" Diana's smile grew almost tender as if she suspected that Joe at times felt old around them. Even though he knew how much younger he really was. "And hi, Diana," Dawson continued with an especially sweet smile.  
   
"Hey, Joe," the woman responded like her companion had. She detached herself from Methos and went over to the bar while Adam took a seat at Duncan's table. She started chatting and, he soon noticed, flirting with Joe.  
   
"So, Diana," Joe inquired, "what do you do for a living nowadays?"  
   
"I write books. Elinor-Glyn-style novels, set against a historical background."  
   
"You mean kitsch?" Joe was perplexed. "Whyever would you do that?"  
   
"Because it is easy. Because it earns me a reasonable income." Her smile widened." Because it makes people dismiss me as a stupid woman without thinking twice."  
   
"Oh man, but you're no stupid woman, that much is for sure!"  
   
"I hope not. And I hope I'm not thinking something stupid right now." She bit her lip sensually.  
   
"Well," he grinned, "depends on what you're thinking, doesn't it?"  
   
She leaned forward and whispered something in his ear that would have made a younger man blush.  
   
"But ... you love Adam, don't you?"  
   
"Yes. But he doesn't love me back," she rejoined calmly. "Does that bother you, if I only want you for one night, as a friend and as a man?"  
   
Joe hesitated for only an instant longer, then he called to the bartender that he had private business to attend to and would be gone for a while.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Sitting at their table, Adam Pierson and Duncan MacLeod were still discussing the events of the last few days.  
   
"Dammit, I even asked her to comply when she wanted my opinion about Petrova!" MacLeod was saying.  
   
"You had no reason to trust me, and Petrova played her cards well," Methos rejoined matter-of-factly after a sip of beer.  
   
"But why weren't you taken in?"  
   
"Because I would have done the same in her place." MacLeod eyed him uncomfortably, even as Adam continued, "Once upon a time." After a long pause he added: "But not anymore. Even Cassandra knows that. She told me to meet her tomorrow."  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Some two hours later, Joe returned to the bar, alone but in high spirits. When Joe learned that Methos would meet Cassandra the next day, he responded: "Well, just in case you don't come back... Can I ask you something?" At Adam’s non-committally raised eyebrow and curious look, he asked a question he had always meant to put to him.  
   
"The most important lesson I learned in 5000 years? The most important lesson? What will you have me say, Joe?" Methos reined in his impatient tone, and explained, "The most important one has been changing year after year. ‘Never underestimate the danger’ was one of the first really important ones. ‘No passion without control’ -- something Kronos taught me unwittingly. ‘Never underestimate the power of romance’ -- that's MacLeod for you. ‘Passion can breed compassion’ -- Cassandra would probably kill me over that one, I daresay."  
His gaze had grown pensive meanwhile, and his sarcastic smile flashed only briefly before he continued more seriously. "Currently I'd settle with ‘Always face the truth,’ I guess. Or no," -- the lowered voice made Joe feel that this one was nearer the mark -- "make that ‘Have friends about you.’" Suddenly his tone gained a bitter inflection. "But don't be deceived, tomorrow I'll surely be back at ‘Never underestimate the danger’..."  
   
"But..." Joe began stubbornly, only to be cut short.  
   
"No, Joe. There are no final answers. At least, I don't have them. Socrates was quite right, and any science, from Psychology to Quantum Physics, just bears it out."  
   
"I know that I know nothing," Dawson quoted wistfully.  
   
"Precisely. He was a bright little fellow, in some ways. Wicked sense of humour, too." He smiled, watching Joe try to keep his curiosity in check, then gave him a deliberately wicked grin. "They say he was my friend." He downed his beer, paid and left in long, leisured strides.  
   


   
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_[Seacouver, in a lonely part of a park, the next day]_  
   
"Good morning," Adam Pierson said quietly from behind her back.  
   
Cassandra turned. "Methos," she acknowledged him. For a while they merely stood facing each other. Then she asked, "Is your slave here?"  
   
"Diana?" He raised his voice, "Come out!" Nothing happened. He shrugged. "Looks like she's still as obedient as I've always known her to be," he concluded.  
   
He stood quite still, his hands in his pockets. For a fleeting moment he closed his eyes while releasing his breath. Opening them again he broke into a smile: "What, I shut my eyes and you don't even attack me?"  
   
"Not today. But don't tempt me too often." After all, there was no knowing if this new-found calm wasn't just temporary.  
   
"You have changed. I hear you were meditating in the Canyon. That must have helped."  
   
"No. I found no peace there. Only litter." She wondered if her tone reminded him of a closed door, too.  
   
"Then you must have found some in that prison," he stated.  
   
As her mind turned back, the man before her seemed to grow colourless and distant. "I saw in her eyes my hurt, my hate, my revenge." Vivid hateful images returned to her conscious.  
   
"It eats you up, doesn't it. ... Been there," he added rather to himself.  
   
"You?!"  
   
He didn't move or reply, just held her gaze. "Maybe one day," he broke the silence at length, "Maybe one day we can be..." His voice trailed off. He lowered his eyes, turned away and told her, "I'll be there," while he walked away.  
   
"Methos!" she shouted angrily. He stopped. "I won't give you another chance to apologize," she warned his back with the slightly hunched shoulders.  
   
She saw the shoulders sag to a droop before he answered without turning back. "You know that I can't."  
   
It was the last word that opened her eyes. It carried the inflection of a haunted man, hollow and desperate. In fact, it sounded as though it were coming from the depths of a vast cave filled with nothing but ... pain? sadness? regret? despair? It was hard to tell, but that void must have been echoing hopeless sentences like this one for aeons, Cassandra sensed.  
   
"No," she contradicted simply. "I didn't know. I'm only a seer. At best I can open up and read what I receive, but I cannot probe."  
   
He turned to face her, but there was nothing left to say. They stood in silence for a long time.  
   
"We shall meet again, Methos." With that she left.  
   
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
_[Some hundred yards away, at the same time]_  
   
The red-haired woman that had been watching them, from the shadows of a tree, smiled.    
   


   
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FOOTNOTES:  
   
(1) By the time system most readers will, like me, be used to, this is roughly 70 B.C.  
The Roman system will be applied where appropriate, since the historical correctness of our current numbering of years is pretty shaky anyway, even if you take the religion it is based on for granted. *wink*  
BACK AGAIN   
   
(2) No, I don't know if such a bar exists in Vegas. :-) But tell me if it does -- I'd love to see it. ;-)  
BACK AGAIN   
   
(3) Please note: While this place actually exists, the events described here to my knowledge have never taken place and are meant to be purely fictional!  
BACK AGAIN   
   
(4) That's slightly colloquial German and means: "She knows a little Gaelic; simply talk to me in German."  
BACK AGAIN   
   
(5) Please note: While this facility actually exists, the events described here to my knowledge have never taken place.  
BACK AGAIN   
   
(6) This year (59 B.C.) is, I believe, also known as the year of the Consules „Julius and Caesar".  
BACK AGAIN   
   


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	2. INTERMEZZO: Friend Come Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS  
> For this part, I have to thank Grimmia for her help. :-)

_[modern day Seacouver, Joe's Bar]_  
   
"Joe, you should have heard him." The wide-shouldered man with the long dark curls had uttered the last sentence with a silent intensity that made Joe Dawson look up. Duncan MacLeod was sitting by the counter at Joe's Bar, playing with his empty tumbler. Dawson's clear blue eyes showed interest and a hint of concern. He waited for Duncan to go on in his own time while Joe returned to polishing the last dozen of wine glasses.  
   
"You know, I asked him about Cassandra, and he told me she was ‘one of a thousand regrets’. But his voice... I've never heard him talk like that. The voice of a ghost..." He stopped, frustrated by his lack of words to describe the haunted tone those words had carried and set his tumbler down. "I can't..."  
   
He was interrupted by the noise of somebody brusquely knocking at the door upstairs.  
   
"We're closed," Joe Dawson bellowed. Obviously he was impatient for MacLeod to continue.  
   
But the knocking didn't stop. On the contrary: if anything, it grew even louder and more energetic.  
   
Duncan sighed. "Now they _know_ you're here." Wearily he slipped off his stool. After a few steps he froze. He threw Joe a warning glance to let him know that the person at the door was an Immortal. Then he drew his sword from his long duster coat, which lay across the counter. He crept up the stairs in silence. Warily he unlocked the door and threw it open.  
   
"Oh," a female voice exclaimed, sounding vaguely familiar.  
   
A long-legged red-head stepped in front of him. He recognised her instantly, although this time her hair was longer and she was wearing more military-style clothing. Her baggy trousers had long rows of small pockets along the sides. Into one of these pockets she slipped the throwing star she had held at the ready. She smiled. "Good afternoon, Duncan MacLeod."  
   
MacLeod dropped his stance. "Hi," he answered noncommittally. He didn't like her too much, but some of his friends did. If she wasn't going to pick a fight, neither was he.  
   
She passed him and walked down the stair.  
   
Joe's face brightened up as soon as he recognised her. "Diana! What brings you to my shady little realm, beautiful?" He grinned and gestured at the barely lit bar.  
   
"A handsome young man does, Joe." She grinned, unabashed.  
   
Dawson's face fell, and Duncan felt his anger rise hotly at her inconsiderate reply. At length Joe slowly told her, "Well, Adam's not here..."  
   
Diana broke into a tinkling little cascade of laughter. "I mean _you_ , silly!" she clarified.  
   
"Oh, boy!" Joe guffawed.  
   
Duncan, who was watching them from the stairs, smiled. His anger had evaporated the instant he saw Joe’s cheeks blush ever so slightly with sheer joy. He hadn't heard Joe laugh that happily for quite some time.  
   
MacLeod turned. "I'll be going, then. See you later, Joe!"  
   
"Yeah," Dawson waved absent-mindedly.  
   
When the door had closed behind MacLeod, he shook his salt-and-pepper head. "I can't believe my luck," he stated frankly. He knew full well that at the bottom of her heart Diana loved Adam Pierson, the man he had only just discussed with MacLeod. Yet at the same time he knew that Diana was here, and apparently she wanted to spend time with himself. Her eyes were on him, him alone, and her body-language was whispering promises to him... "But who am I to argue?" He grinned.  
   
"Well, I was thinking I might abduct you to my own little shady realm."  
   
For a moment Dawson was at a loss for words. "Yeah?" All smiles, he conceded simply, "You could, you know."  
   
"Or..." She gave him a seductive look before she sat on the bar and leaned back a little to swing her legs across the counter. Then she jumped down and, swaying her hips provocatively, approached him. "Or you could show me yours..." -- her index finger touched his chest and slid downwards -- "...in greater detail."  
   
"Uhm..." He glanced around the bar and was about to say he'd just have to find his keys to be ready and at her command, but he didn't get that far.  
   
She had followed his gaze and noticed the glasses that were still waiting to be polished. "Look, we'll just finish these first, shall we?" She reached out for a tumbler.  
   
Joe, however, stopped her by putting his hand over hers. "Why wait?" His stomach tensed when she didn’t answer right away.  
   
"Because we've got bags of time. I'm staying a while. And I don't know about you, but I like waiting when I have something really good to wait for." The smile she gave him transformed the tension in his belly, from unease to delicious longing. He gave in.  
   
They spent half an hour finding out more about each other, before they went to spend a couple of hours on finding out more about each other's body.  
   
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


 

   
Later, they lay cuddled together in Diana's stuffy little hotel room. Suddenly Joe looked at her and asked, "Will you hate me if I go fishing for compliments?"  
   
"No," she promised, adding, "We all do, in one way or another." Then she broke into a grin, though her eyes were serious. "Anything particular you'd like to hear?"  
   
"Tell me one thing: Why me? Why an old man without legs?"  
   
"Old man?" She laughed. The springs in the couch they were sitting on squeaked as she turned to face him. "Joe. Do you realise I'm something like 40 times as old as you are? And about the legs: Quit worrying, because I couldn't care less. You've got all it takes -- you're still a whole man, no matter if your body isn't whole."  
   
"Wow. That was blunt." He paused. "Thanks."  
   
She smiled. "The thing is, I like younger men. Especially younger men with brains." She patted his arm, then slid lower and rested her head on his belly.  
   
"Then what is it you like about..." _* No, wait, better not call him by his real name. He mightn't have told her. Wouldn’t be like him, would it?*_ ...Adam? He's definitely not younger."  
   
"No, he must be a couple of centuries older, I imagine."  
   
 _*Right.*_  
   
She gazed at Joe seriously. "Are you sure you want to know?"  
   
"Hell, yeah!"  
   
"For one thing, he's strong."  
   
He nodded, relieved to find he felt no jealousy whatsoever as she was warming to the subject.  
   
"I sometimes thought that deep down he believed he had lost everything that's worth living for. Yet he still went on. For decades. For centuries. That takes an awful lot of strength."  
   
And maybe an awful _kind_ of strength, Dawson thought. But there was no point in saying so, as it could have hurt her.  
   
He watched her look up at the water-stains on the ceiling. She seemed to be reminiscing. "When he bought me, he was Aulus Tullius Auratus. He was not my first master, and he wasn't all that important, for an eques. But he was a true lord. Still is. A born leader, a remorseless warrior, a reliable..." She stopped short. "I don't know. I just always knew I could trust him."  
   
"A true lord?" He wondered what she meant by that. "So he bought you some two millennia ago. And that's why you still call him domine?"  
   
The musical laughter he had heard so often this evening chimed again. The springs creaked, echoing her laughter, as she turned to him. "Only indirectly. I'm the last of his clientes. By calling him domine I'm merely polite."  
   
"Clientes?" For a moment her strange pronunciation of the word confused him, but then he realised it was Latin. The real thing. The way it had once been pronounced, before it had been all but forgotten. "Oh, I see!" What a difference that made, to be confronted with the real thing rather than a Watcher file or a documentary... He'd read about these reliable small-time allies when researching some Immortal's historical background. The client-patron-relationship had been a question of mutual political support. The patron had usually got lifelong services, in exchange for handing out small presents every day.  
   
For some reason Dawson felt relieved at the idea that she thought of herself as a "client", not a slave.  
   
"Everyone who was anything had clients. But few had so many clients displaying quite such a strong personal commitment. That's part of what I mean by ‘true lord’ -- a man that makes you want to submit. Makes submission worth the effort."  
   
"You mean he was ... you know ... a nice guy?"  
   
"Given the times, yes. ‘A loving master’ is the term I'd use."  
   
Joe found it hard to imagine the ethereal beauty whose short red hair he was stroking as a slave. The idea was nearly as hard to conceive as was Adam Pierson as a nice guy. No, not Adam Pierson. Methos. Not after all Joe had heard about Cassandra. "Have you ever met Cassandra? I mean, did you get to talk?"  
   
"I followed her for a while, as you know, but talk ... no. I kept out of range."  
   
"She doesn't exactly describe him as a loving master," he remarked carefully.  
   
"Well, that could be because she wasn't a very good slave. Some find it hard to adapt when enslaved."  
   
"But you didn't, did you?"  
   
"I was born a slave, I didn't have to adapt."  
   
He couldn’t stop himself from asking, "But adapt to what? I mean, what does it mean to be ... that?"  
   
"You were in the Army, weren't you?" She kissed the stump of his right leg.  
   
"Yeah," he answered hoarsely. The thought of his time as a soldier in the Vietnam war always brought alive a curious mixture of emotions. It recalled memories of guilt, pain, friendship, loss... and the memory of what it had been like to be running across the battlefield -- running on two real legs. The way your weight rested on them so securely, without any need of canes or crutches... He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I was."  
   
"Then you know what it means not to be your own master."  
   
He was surprised at her reasoning and nodded slowly. It was the first time he actually had a sense of her being older than himself.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Joe's Bar]_  
   
Duncan MacLeod was coming down the steps into the comfortable smoky gloom of Joe's Bar. Joe Dawson called out cheerfully and waved, but he was answered only with a serious nod. Then MacLeod withdrew to one of the small tables at the rear. Normally he would have come to sit at the bar and have a chat with Joe, but today he didn't look as if he'd be in the mood. He was pretending to be listening to the blues band on the small stage. Perhaps he preferred to be alone.  
   
Undeterred, Dawson walked over. He set the bottle and the two tumblers he had brought on the table. Then he sat and regarded Duncan in silence.  
   
The Immortal's brown eyes met his. "I'll be okay, Joe," MacLeod assured him.  
   
"Bad day?"  
   
"Bad fight. Had to take a head I didn't want," he put it as briefly as possible. Then he opened the bottle of Glenmorangie with ceremonial care. He filled their glasses. He closed the bottle firmly, looking at Dawson meaningfully. He wasn't going to say any more than that tonight.  
   
They downed their drinks simultaneously. Knowing that no more words were needed between them, Joe stood. He laid his hand on Duncan's shoulder in passing and went back to his usual place behind the bar.  
   
He had barely come to stand there when he saw MacLeod sit up sharply, his eyes restless. They both looked at the bar's entrance. Joe felt a little disappointed that the tall, lithe shape in the door-frame didn't turn out to be Diana. No, indeed, it was a dark-haired man who looked to be anything between 25 and 35 years. However, Joe knew that in this case looks were particularly misleading. This man, Immortal like MacLeod, was over 5000 years old. Joe had known Methos for a few years now, but in many ways the Immortal still mystified him. His way of speaking usually held a veiled fierceness that seemed oddly incongruous to his otherwise laid-back demeanour. He had an inexplicable charm, even though he wasn't exactly a forthcoming character. And they had only just found out some things about his past that... No, no, he wasn't going there now.  
   
 _*Better just watch and learn.*_  
   
Meanwhile, the ancient Immortal had reached the bottom of the stair. He exchanged a nod with Duncan and came over to the bar. "What's the matter?" he asked casually.  
   
"A fight, he says." Joe made sure there was no other mortal within earshot before he explained, "It's about a head he had to take. I guess it's the responsibility." He could hear the emotion in his own voice.  
   
Of course Methos _had_ to pick up on that. "That's what bothers _him_. And what's bothering _you_?" he inquired with that fierce trade-mark edge in his voice.  
   
Dawson sighed wearily. He found it difficult to put this into words. It was as if all the key words were leaden -- too heavy for his tongue to handle them. Too big and solid to swallow. "Sometimes I think nobody should have that kind of power -- to kill with the swing of a piece of metal ... or at the push of a button."  
   
He could see Methos suddenly realise that this was more about Joe than about MacLeod, really.  
   
"You're having flash-backs?" His surprised, but understanding tone was that of the trained doctor he had once been. "Vietnam?" he ventured.  
   
Joe didn't answer. He knew his level gaze was answer enough.  
   
"Joe. Joe, tell me about it. What's wrong?"  
   
"I took people's lives, that's what's wrong!" Joe almost shouted at him angrily, subduing his voice only by force of habit. "Just because I..." He stopped to continue more quietly, "They'd be alive if I hadn't pulled the tri..."  
   
Adam shrugged, cutting in: "You were a soldier, Joe. You had to. You'd have been either killed or court-martialled, right?"  
   
Dawson shook his head. "Sure, but..."  
   
Adam leant forward. "It all comes down to one question: ‘Who am I to take another's life, for the sake of my own?’ You have to answer that. Answer it for yourself."  
   
It was one of those rare moments when you could feel Methos' true age almost physically. It weighed down your shoulders, pushed you against the wall, searched your entrails, and came up with pieces of your soul that even you hardly knew... Joe swallowed. He scanned the room. Apparently the band had been loud or good enough for people to disregard his outburst. He glanced back at Methos. "What's your own answer?"  
   
"An animal," the Immortal returned frankly. "Granted, an animal with a conscience, but no better -- and no worse! -- than an animal." Again the edge in his voice became unmistakable. For a brief moment it reminded Joe of a volcano; Or, more precisely, he felt as though he were standing on the uncomfortably thin cooled crust above a lava tunnel and could feel the heat rising from the perilous ground beneath him...  
   
"Right," Joe shot back, "An animal with napalm in one hand and a gun in the other."  
   
"Joe, if a wolf could use a net or a gun to catch its prey, it would, and it wouldn't think twice about it. The means don't change the fact that you had but two alternatives: to kill or to die."  
   
Quite suddenly, Joe grinned at him. "You know, I think I'm getting an idea of why Diana cares about you."  
   
While Dawson went over to join the band for a set, Methos remained at the bar counter, deep in thought. Not so deep in thought, though, as not to notice that Dawson's improvisations showed an untypical range of emotions tonight. Among others there were cynism, sadness, and something he tentatively labelled pity. Very strange.  
   


   
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 _[Seacouver, Mother-Theresa-Park]_  
   
"Do you love Joe?"  
   
Tullius had... -- no, Adam had asked Diana to meet him in the little park near his house. At first they had stood side by side, watching a swan cross the pond. She had waited for him to speak, thinking he could only have called her to tell her about something important. And now this. He was asking questions. About her. About something that he must surely be aware of. "I care about him. But the one I love is you."  
   
"Why do you love me?"  
   
She was even more surprised to hear him put _THAT_ question. "Do you not know it? Because you are a true lord."  
   
"You've known quite a few men of power, my girl." Ah, it was good to hear him use that old-fashioned expression. Old-fashioned. Protective. Not at all like him, these days. "Why don't you fall in love with someone younger, or someone more powerful?"  
   
How to explain that? Adam was... different.  
   
Of today's men only few had learnt to handle power over life and death of many people -- and surely none had handled it as long. On the outside he appeared a mild and rather sweet fellow. Actually, he was often considered shy. Even those who knew him more intimately seldom knew the harsh side of his complex character, other than as his biting wit.  
   
She shook her head. No. The simple truth was, none of the men of power interested her. None of them had both his style _and_ his completely enslaving mannerisms. "Why is the sky blue, why is water wet? You are who you are, and that is enough."  
   
He smiled benevolently. "Alright, alright. Never mind."  
   
   
They both were lost in thought when suddenly Diana remembered something.  
   
"By the way, what happened to Sarah?" she inquired. She had never thought to ask in all those years. How strange.  
   
"Which one?" Adam wanted to know.  
   
"The Hebrew slave that was so disobedient and openly hostile." Sarah had been a rare exception.  
   
"I'm surprised you remember her now," he smiled.  
   
 _*Of course you are*_ , she thought.  
   
"She tried to kill me. With a scorpion in my bed, of all things," he added with a sneer.  
   
Diana was taken aback. "What did you do?"  
   
He grinned. "I gave it back to her, thanked her for the gift and told her I only eat those when I absolutely have to."  
   
She snickered, imagining Sarah's reaction. "Did she respect you then?"  
   
"Of course not. Sarah hated me for my power over her, dear."  
   
"No, no, she said she looked down on you because you were a heathen!"  
   
"Did she ever once try to get kosher food from you?"  
   
"Ummm... No." He was right, that didn’t make sense. Had she known so little at the time that she hadn’t realised as much?  
   
"She convinced herself this was a religious thing, but it never was. Most religions offer you some excuse for that. She _WANTED_ to hate me, and there was nothing to be done about it."  
   
As he spoke, Diana had grown very serious. "What _did_ you do?"  
   
With an odd smile he said, "I didn't kill her." He stroked her cheek. "I didn't rape her, either." He kissed her deeply, though only briefly. The kiss filled her with a nameless fear she hadn’t known in decades. The pit of her stomach turned icy cold. "But I had to break her somehow. Are you sure you want to know?"  
   
Lowering her head, she whispered, "No, domine."  
   
   
Another long, thoughtful moment later, however, she looked up. "But that is exactly what I mean. You are a true lord. No country's or corporation's leader today equals you in that."  
   
At this, Adam only snorted his subdued resentment. Apparently he did not agree.  
   
   


   
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 _[Seacouver, Joe's Bar]_  
   
It was early afternoon and Joe's Bar was still closed. But Adam Pierson had come anyway, obviously expecting to find Joe here -- and a can of cold, free beer.  
   
"You're out of beer," Adam announced from the fridge behind the bar.  
   
"Thanks to you, no doubt," Joe Dawson muttered.  
   
"Well, somehow your beer just tastes better than mine."  
   
"Does it now?" Joe shot back sarcastically. "The new supply has just come. Feel free to stock the fridge."  
   
Adam went to the store room and returned with a large package of beer cans. "But that's not cold!" he complained while he broke the package in two and shoved it into the fridge. "You know I like my beer cold. Cold as my heart, as some people would say."  
   
"Some sure would," Dawson confirmed.  
   
Adam shut the fridge door, came over to Joe and asked. "What are you driving at?"  
   
"Diana wouldn't." Dawson decided not to mention that, in contrast to her, Cassandra would have.  
   
"She's too respectful," Adam commented diplomatically.  
   
"No," Dawson contradicted. "She cares."  
   
"So?"  
   
"Why did you treat her so different?"  
   
"Joe, you really are a pain in the rear." Adam turned and left the bar in long strides.  
   
   
Five hours later, however, when the bar had been open for a while, he returned. "I was at Mac's," he stated, joining Joe behind the bar. "Say, did you guys team up or something? He didn't have cold beer, either."  
   
"You do know ya can buy it in stores, do you?" Dawson asked him dryly.  
   
"Sure, but I want to drink it cold and in the company of a friend. Preferably one that doesn't keep getting on my nerves."  
   
Their eyes met. Joe wondered if that remark was directed at him or at MacLeod.  
   
To his utter surprise, Adam lowered his eyes first. He looked down at the can of beer he had retrieved from the fridge in the mean-time and took a sip. Then he sat on a bench at the opposite wall, where he had some space to himself.  
   
Joe watched him brooding over his beer for a while. When he had a spare moment, he walked over. "Okay, man, what is it?"  
   
"First you ask me about my past, then Mac does ... and now you ask me what's the matter?" He shook his head. "You're both such nerve-wrecking boy scouts." Joe kept his silence. After a while Adam shrugged, "That baby tried to help me get over the responsibility ... he meant about Cassandra, I suppose. As if I hadn't lived with it for millennia."  
   
Puzzled, Joe wanted to know, "What's that to do with me? All _I_ wanted to know about was the _difference_ between Diana and Cassandra."  
   
"Either way, you end up with the same question," Adam answered more quietly, if with an intense gaze into Joe's eyes, "What's the difference between Methos, Tullius and Pierson?"  
   
Joe did not ask. He merely said, "You've changed a lot, haven't ya."  
   
"Yes." Now Adam was calm, quiet, pensive. He really didn't want to tell Joe more about his past. But then, Dawson was perhaps his best friend. The Watcher tried hard not to ask too much, but this time curiosity would get the better of him, he could see that in his eyes.  
   
"How?"  
   
"Joe, you don't want to meet the Methos that killed Cassandra, and you count Adam Pierson among your friends. Isn't that enough?"  
   
"I'm a Watcher, Adam. Researching and trying to understand is my life. Is that so hard to see?"  
   
Adam relented. "But you can't write this down, you know that."  
   
"Goes without saying."  
   
"You're going to hate me. Do you really want to lose a friend?" Without moving a muscle, Adam put all the menace he could muster into his gaze. It was working, too: Joe’s arm suddenly showed goose bumps.  
   
But not enough. Joe stubbornly pleaded, "Listen, I don't think you can tell me much beyond what I've heard already." Boy, was that little mortal wrong! "I managed to stomach that, so I guess I can deal with this, too." But perhaps there was still a path he could take. Dawson was looking so hopeful, so confident...  
   
Adam sighed. "It's very simple," he began. "When I had Cassandra, I realised I could do more than just make her hate me." He wasn't for the life of him going to say he had been able to make her enjoy the way he had raped her. How else to put it? Oh yes, the way he had worded it in his diary would do. "I could make her moan despite herself. She stopped knowing whether she loved or despised me. To me, it was a new kind of power."  
   
He regarded Dawson seriously. So far, he was taking it well. He wouldn't mention the fact that she had hated this new cruelty, or that he had enjoyed humiliating her by it. "I began to explore that ... I learned to please. Somehow, along the line, I learned to care." It had taken centuries, but he wasn't going to say so. Dawson didn't need to know everything. He didn't need to know that the Methos Cassandra had known was still there. Other, friendlier layers had been added, but the joy at killing and cruelty could still be recalled.  
   
"Any more questions?" he asked in a tone that advised Dawson to decline.  
   
"Yeah: Another beer?"  
   
At Joe's cheeky grin even Methos had to smile. "Sure."  
   
When Dawson brought an unopened bottle over, opener lightly held in his hand, Adam asked, "Want to know a secret about Diana?" He smirked at Joe’s eyes lighting up. "She adores your biceps." He stood, took his beer, winked and slowly sauntered toward the exit.  
   
   
   



	3. Friends Immortal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe's in for a surprise...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS  
> Several thanks going out to my friends for this *hugs* Guys, you're the best!

_[Seacouver, Joe's flat, modern day, early morning]_  
   
The doorbell rang. Joe groaned, rolled off Diana and adjusted his shirt. The red-haired woman sighed, kissed him quickly and agreed with his sentiment: "I know. But that's an Immortal at the door; They don't come visit you unless it's urgent, do they?"  
   
"Yeah, but why do they have to have urgent business just when we're cuddling?"  
   
"Perhaps because we're cuddling all the time?"  
   
The doorbell rang again.  
   
Joe looked at his watch. "It's 6.30 am, for Chrissakes!" He got his crutches and stood.  
   
Diana stretched luxuriously beneath the covers, glad that Joe was already dressed. He had woken her with a delicious breakfast half an hour ago, and she suspected he had made plans for them both for the day.  
   
She heard the door open, and a tenor voice said, "I've got a parcel for you, sir."  
   
Diana frowned and decided to get up, as well. Quickly she shed her satin pyjamas and threw on some clothes while Joe declared that there must be some misunderstanding. He wasn't expecting any parcels.  
   
"Would you step outside with me -- it's pretty big -- and just take a look? Perhaps it's surprise or something," the stranger's thin high voice suggested.  
   
The door was closed, and the sense of an Immortal presence softened. Softened, yes, but it persisted...  
   
Diana had a really bad feeling. Hastily she put on her shoes, grabbed her sword, her long jacket and the key Joe had given her and followed them out.  
   
The corridor seemed empty, but she could still feel the presence of another Immortal. The sense of foreboding increased. Suddenly she noticed something shifting in the gloomy hole of the cellar stairs as she passed them on her way to the door. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows. It was a tall man in a long coat who now reached the ground floor.  
   
She relaxed. "Good morning, domine."  
   
Adam Pierson nodded. "Where's Joe going?"  
   
"I don't know -- I was about to try and find out."  
   
Pierson strode over to the nearest window and looked out. All of a sudden his expression changed and he started to move. Racing around the cellar stairs and towards Diana and the door, he shouted, "Quick!"  
   
Diana could already hear a motor being started outside, and when she pushed the glass doors open, it grew louder. Turning toward the noise, Diana caught a glimpse of Joe's trousers. They were disappearing as Joe's limp body was dragged inside the back of a lorry and the doors shut. The van drove off.  
   
Meanwhile, Adam had caught up with Diana. He grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the side of the street, where his car was parked. "You drive," he ordered, thrusting his key at her.  
   
Quickly they both jumped in.  
   
Diana fumbled the key into the lock, wondering why she was to drive. Since driving had not been the appropriate thing to do for a woman when motorcars had started to become available, Adam still was a couple of decades ahead of her in practice. Especially when it came to driving fast. That might have come in handy now, and it was unlike him to let go of a perfectly good advantage for nothing. So why wasn’t he driving?  
   
While Diana began to follow the lorry, Adam unwittingly answered her question. He punched a number into his mobile phone. "Duncan? Is Richie still in town? Yes? He's with you?" He gave a surprised sigh of relief while Richie was apparently handed the receiver. "Richie? Jump on that motorcycle of yours and come help us. Joe's been kidnapped." He briefly described where they were heading at the moment. "Got that? Okay, don't forget to take your cell with you. Call when you're there and I'll give you an update." He snapped the phone shut.  
   
"Don't keep too close to the van. -- When Richie gets here, we'll have to get another car and follow in turns." That way they would be less conspicuous. For the time being there was only one more thing he could do. He found a writing pad and a pen and copied the van's number plate. He thrust the pad into his pocket, his gaze focused on the lorry.  
   
After a few moments Diana asked. "Why were you there?"  
   
"I've been watching Joe's back from time to time, internet-wise. During the night I happened upon a couple of emails that suggested I better come round and warn the two of you. Whoever this is, they are fairly professional about it."  
   
"Watchers?" she asked while speculating if she could perhaps hide in the lorry’s dead angle.  
   
"I don't know. I rather think not. They didn't use the Watcher network, at any rate."  
   
"Immortals, then?"  
   
"If I could pinpoint someone, I should have let you have a dance with them," he responded grimly.  
   
Diana merely nodded.  
   
Ten minutes later, his cell phone rang. "Yes? ... Yes, that's perfect. Stay on that lane, and go at..." He peered at the dashboard. "...about 25 mph. ... Yes, good. You should see it soon now, approaching you from behind." He proceeded to describe the lorry and their strategy of following it before closing the line.  
   
Among the general noise from the cars around them, the not so healthy sound of a motorcycle with a dysfunctional carburettor grew discernible. At the same time, they both felt the near-painful vicinity of an Immortal. When Richie came in sight and began to follow the lorry steadily, Diana braked the car somewhat and fell back. She sighed relief.  
   
"No," Adam ordered, "don't slow down. Overtake the lorry before the next junction and make it look as though you were going to stop them. Hopefully they will get off at the junction and think they've lost us, even though Richie will still follow them."  
   
Her teeth set, Diana nodded, accelerated and studied the street ahead, trying to spot the next junction.  
   
All of a sudden, she saw something big and dark from the corner of her eye. It was approaching the car's front at what seemed like quite a high speed. She stomped on the brake in a panic. The next moment the big dark blur hit the grill with an impact that made the car shake, swerve and almost crash into one or two other vehicles. Diana only just managed to keep it upright and get it to roll to the side of the street. Her face was a greyish pale as she watched the lorry drive away.  


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Adam jumped out of the car and ran over to the disfigured, bloody heap on the street, passing the contorted motorcycle. The bike's motor was still running, though it sounded unhealthier than ever. The cycle’s back wheel now turned uselessly as it lay on one side.  
   
Richie must have somehow lost his balance and had crashed right into them, Adam concluded. He didn't have to check the young Immortal's pulse to know that he was dead, but he did, all the same. Very likely his neck had snapped, so he'd have to hold it up to keep up the pretence that Richie was still alive. Carefully he gathered the dead body in his arms, trying to disregard the cars that passed him by, swerving perilously and honking their horns. He made it back to the car and laid Richie on the back seat.  
   
He was about to go back and get the bike out of the way, when he saw Diana's frozen expression. Without a word, he slapped her face, then took her in his arms. Only then did he speak. "Go sit in the car, at the wheel. Can you drive?" She nodded. "Good. I'll call the police and tell them you'll take Richie to the hospit..."  
   
He was interrupted by the furious sound of an approaching siren. A police car stopped next to them.  
   
Adam went over to the cop that got out first and said urgently: "Listen, this young guy is injured, can my friend drive him to the hospital? He sat down in our car and just fainted. I think he has a severe concussion of the brains. If so, he shouldn't be moved."  
   
"Alright, my colleague will drive ahead, that'll make them faster." The other officer got back in and the two cars took off fast, the siren howling. "Now, tell me exactly what happened."  
   
In the back of his mind, Adam hoped fervently that Richie would revive within the time it took to get to the hospital. But the top of his mind was just solving a quite different problem. "Well, I don't know for sure, but my impression was that this biker was a victim of that van, like us."  
   
He waited for the cop to inquire, "What van?"  
   
"There was a lorry that drove so dangerously that..." Acting as though he had only just remembered it, he finished, "I actually wrote down the number," and pulled the writing pad from his coat pocket. "They braked so hard, we nearly hit them and the like, you know, almost as if it were on purpose. The lorry must have hit the bike and sent it crashing into our front, poor kid."  
   
A few moments later another police car drove up and the lorry's license plate number was radioed in.  
   
It took Adam more than an hour before he was allowed to go, but at least they promised to call him as soon as the van was found.  


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, near Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, morning]_  
   
When Adam returned home in a taxi, he was surprised to see his battered car near his place. Approaching the door he felt an Immortal presence and started to wonder whether this was Diana alone or Richie mixing in, as well. But he would soon know, he shoved the thought aside. For the moment he would have to use the fear Immortals instilled in each other to be prepared, just in case. He put his right hand on his trusty Ivanhoe sword while his left inserted the key. Then he turned the key slowly and pushed the door open warily, stepping back a fraction.  
   
However, there was no need to be wary. There was only Diana inside, who told him Richie was just taking a shower and borrowing a few clothes from Adam.  
   
She was obviously putting on a brave show of cheerfulness, but he decided not to comment on that. Not just now. He nodded briefly. "Your timing must have been lucky, then."  
   
"By Jove, yes! Your plan worked out by a hair's breadth."  
   
"If we stay this lucky, we may yet find Joe. I told the police that the lorry caused the whole accident."  


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
Adam was brilliant as always, Diana reflected a few minutes later, while he saw Richie to the door. It was a lonesome thought, though, alone in the foggy emptiness that filled her mind now. Fear still numbed her, body and mind.  
   
When Richie and she had come to Adam’s flat it had been so bad that she had had to let the younger Immortal open the door. She hadn’t managed to get the key into the lock. Her fingers had been too numb.  
   
Right now she didn’t feel much better. She knew that if Adam told her what to do, she could do it even now, by and large. But she was feeling nothing, she felt as if she heard everything through a cotton ball in her ears and saw everything at an extra distance, through glass walls. And worst of all, she could not decide for herself. Her mind was completely blank.  
   
She looked up when Adam returned and sat beside her. The words came from her lips without ever touching her conscious thought first: "I need you to be my master. For the moment."  
   
He looked at her closely. At length he nodded. "I see. Under the circumstances I have no choice. I accept."  
   
Drained of energy, she felt rather than saw her own eyes lose their focus. Inclined to be thankful for the limited shut-down of her conscious, she stared through Adam’s pullover. But her master’s voice jerked her back into reality.  
   
"I hadn’t realised you liked Joe this much."  
   
"Nor had I."  
  


   
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 _[Rome, in the year of the Consules Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus  
and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives, 684 a.u.c.(1)]_  
   
It was quite dark in the slave quarters when Diana woke. It had to be some time around midnight, she thought. Drowsily she wondered what had woken her. She lifted her head and discovered a dark shape by her feet. For a second she thought of the leopard her master kept. Fear kicked in and instantly she was wide awake. She dared not move. The shape expanded, lengthened.  
   
Suddenly she realised that since yesterday she didn’t belong to Titus Clodius anymore, and her new master didn’t have that pompous kind of animal in his house. She relaxed as she finally recognised the movement as that of a squatting person standing up. Quickly she stood, as well, unclad as she was. At the back of her mind she now remembered belatedly that it had been a light tug at her toes that had woken her.  
   
The dark figure beckoned her to come nearer. There was nothing for it, she had to obey. The tall shape reached out for her, pulled her nearer and said in a low voice: "Lie with me."  
   
She recognised the heavy Nubian accent, and the tall man’s typical economic gestures when he motioned her toward the other empty place among the sleeping slaves.  
   
"Yes, Marcus," she consented demurely. After all, as major domus he was her superior. If he wished to take what her master had declined on her first night here — only yesterday, that was — what could she do?  
   
Marcus lay down on his back and stretched out his arms to her. Seconds later she was lying on top of the tall sinewy Nubian, wondering what exactly he expected her to do. She wondered about that even more when all he did was draw her close, both of his hands resting on her back in a rather innocent fashion. Did she have to make the first step?  
   
How could she do it? Actually, why was that more difficult with him than it would have been with her master Tullius? After all, Marcus had a kind of good looks of his own, his voice was gentle, his body lithe, his manner impeccable...  
   
She lifted herself off him enough to look at the whitish smudges in the darkness that were his eyes. He seemed to be looking back at her. Shyly she drew her hand up to his face and began to stroke his cheek. The pale smudges disappeared as he closed his eyes. He caught her hand. "Please, don’t." He sounded very sad. "Just lie here and warm me." He cleared his throat and the sadness became harder to notice, but she thought it was still there. "I am not used to the climate. I get cold in the Roman nights. All I need is a little warmth."  
   
"There is more than one kind of warmth."  
   
This time she could not tell what it was, but he was controlling some sort of emotion. "There is only one that I want of you."  
   
"Yes, Marcus," she gave in submissively, laid her head back on his chest and waited for them both to fall asleep again.  
   


   
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 _[Seacouver, at the back door of Duncan MacLeod’s dojo, modern day, morning]_  
   
Richie ascended the stairs to Duncan MacLeod’s loft tiredly. As he approached the door, he felt the sensation he had hoped for. It rose uncomfortably from his gut to his neck whenever he neared another Immortal. At once he was awake and alert again. He knocked on the door, opened it and called out: "Mac? It’s me."  
   
MacLeod — tall, dark-haired and well-muscled — gestured at his attire and inquired, "Methos didn’t get you into trouble, did he?"  
   
"Not really," the young Immortal responded quietly. "If anyone, Joe did. Joe’s been kidnapped."  
   
"What?!" Duncan was aghast. He had already wondered why the young man had rushed off after Methos’ call without taking the time to explain, but this piece of news was nowhere near the kind he had anticipated.  
   
"Methos found something fishy, like, and was just going to warn Joe, but he... There was a delivery guy, and the old bastard just ducked out of the way. Delivery guy kidnaps Joe, and there you have it," Richie finished angrily.  
   
"And what about the change of clothes?" Duncan probed, obviously suspecting something already.  
   
"We chased the kidnapper on the city highway" — he looked down at the floor — "but my carburettor gave out and I crashed into Methos’ car."  
   
"Oh, God." MacLeod sat down and drew his hands over his face. He looked pretty shaken.  
   
"Look, Methos has the police looking for their car. They’ll be wanting me for their report on the accident, too, I guess. I’m going there now. Want to come?"  
   
Determination replaced the shock in MacLeod’s eyes. "Let’s go." He grabbed the long duster coat that concealed his katana, gave the loft a searching glance and followed the younger Immortal out.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
  
   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, late morning]_  
   
"Ma’am, are you Miss Elaiza D. Roma(2)?"  
   
Diana had problems focusing on the uniform-clad men in front of the door. "Yes. Why?"  
   
The two cops were quite alike in build, both lean, tall and fit. But beyond that and the blond hair they seemed curiously different. The one that had addressed Diana was in his mid-twenties and boasted the more striking appearance. He was the type that women usually fell for, with his muscles, wavy hair and the slightly crooked smile.  
   
The older one was more the slender, sinewy sort and held himself very upright. Methos was inclined to consider him the better fighter of the two, since his motions were economic and very controlled, even though his way of walking looked somewhat stiff. It wasn’t the stiffness of age, he was only 45 at the very most. It was the stiffness that came with tightened abdominal muscles.  
   
"Permit me, Jason," the older cop said softly as he moved forward to speak to Diana.  
   
"Sure, Pete," Jason consented grudgingly and let his brother-officer pass him.  
   
"You write books under the pseudonym Diana, is that correct?" Pete now asked.  
   
She nodded tiredly.  
   
"Could we step in for a moment?"  
   
"Of course." The way her hand dropped from the door told Methos that the two policemen coming in hadn’t brought any good news.  
   
He stepped forward. "Come on in, officers, take a seat." While he motioned them toward the couch, he asked Diana to make some tea for them.  
   
The men protested, but he insisted, "No, really, it’s the least we can do. Takes only a minute." He followed Diana to the kitchen, ostensibly to show her where to find the little bag of apple tea, and held her while she waited for the water to start boiling. Then he returned with cups, spoons and sugar. "I’m sorry we’re not in such a talkative mood today," he babbled, pretending to be nervous and uncertain, "but you must understand we’ve had an accident only today…"  
   
"Actually," the older, slightly smaller officer interrupted him, "that’s why we are here."  
   
"Oh!" Adam feigned surprise. "I thought you were fans of Diana. I’m frightfully sorry. I mean, you asked about her books, you know, so…" He looked at them expectantly.  
   
"Please, sit down, Mr. …?"  
   
"Pierson," Adam filled in dutifully while he sat opposite them on a stool he dragged closer, "Adam Pierson."  
   
"Mr. Pierson," Jason took over, "you two had this accident, as you said.. To be honest, it really surprised us you had copied the number plate of the car that caused it. Some of our colleagues thought there was something … ummm … strange about all that uncanny presence of mind you seemed to have..."  
   
"Look, I really don’t know how to say this," the Pete resumed with a glare at his partner, "but is there anything you would like to tell us? Anything at all?"  
   
"I don’t understand, what are you talking about?" As Adam shook his head uncomprehendingly, Diana came in.  
   
Quietly she put the apple tea on the low table by the couch, dropped a cushion on the floor beside Adam’s stool and knelt there. "Officer," she asked pleasantly, "why don’t you tell us what this is all about?" While their guests relented, Adam’s features tightened slightly at hearing Diana’s voice. It was the voice of a very well-trained slave who would let nothing interfere with her performing her duty. Not even a personal catastrophe.  
   
This time Jason waited for the older man to speak. "It’s this: First of all, we’ve found the van. It had been stolen. From the manufacturer, no less. And that’s just the point, because we’ve had a number of cases recently where cars stolen directly from this manufacturer were involved. The cars have turned up at different places all over the country, abandoned. In some instances we found what they had been used for." He looked hard at Adam, since Diana’s expression was blank. "Kidnappings."  
   
Adam suddenly changed tactics and put his arm around Diana in a protective gesture. "Officer, we’ve had a very hard day. What is that to do with us?" His voice was controlled, but he let veiled anger show through. The slight emotional colouring would help in getting rid of them as soon as possible. But first he wanted to hear the policeman’s reply.  
   
"In each case the kidnapped person turned out to be very close to a fairly successful author." The cop paused to sip a little tea and eye the two civilians in front of him. It was clear what he was thinking: the kidnappers had told them not to tell the police, or else. He reasoned, "People always think silence will keep the victims alive, but in this particular case… The kidnappers haven’t released _ANY_ one. Only one has been found so far," – he fixed his gaze on the floor and Adam smirked inwardly at the dramatic pause – "abandoned in a deserted house in a Washington suburb, died of thirst. Not a pretty sight." The cop put down his cup and said in a softer tone, "I am here to help. So please, if any of your friends has been kidnapped, too, tell me." At length he added another urgent "Please".  
   
However, his request fell on deaf ears.  
   
"We appreciate your concern, sir," Adam told him sternly, "but you’re quite mistaken if you think this is just another case like those others. As you can see, I haven’t been kidnapped. And" – he turned to the younger cop – "the guy drove dangerously long before the accident, so I had written his number plate down. No mystery about that, I’m afraid." He rose, watching Diana rapidly get up, too. "If they were planning something," he finished, "I suppose they got cold feet after the accident."  
   
"May I accompany you to the door?" Diana asked softly.  
   
"Yes, sure, of course," the older policeman quickly agreed. "Thank you, Ma’am."  
   
As they went out, she gave them each a smile and said in a low voice, "Please, don’t think us inhospitable. It’s just that we did have a really rough day. There was a young man that could have had a brain trauma, for all we knew, and … and then you come suggesting…" – she looked at Jason until he almost blushed – "…things."  
   


  
  
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 _[Rome, in the year of the Consules Quintus Hortensius  
and Quintus Caecilius Metellus Creticus, 685 a.u.c. (3)]_  
   
It had been another cool Roman night, so Diana woke close beside Marcus. She turned to look at him in the dim morning light. He seemed to have lost weight in this past year, she thought. When she stroked his temple with her thumb, she saw fluid gathering beneath the corner of his closed eye. He was weeping.  
   
"Marcus," she whispered, "what is it?"  
   
His jaw-line hardened somewhat, but otherwise he did not react.  
   
"Marcus," she repeated more softly, drawing the back of her fingers gently down his cheek.  
   
Suddenly he caught her wrist and opened his eyes. "Don’t!"  
   
She lowered her eyes with a soft sigh. "I am sorry."  
   
He sat up and looked at her for a long time. Then he stood and simply told her, "Come."  
   
He wrapped himself in his blanket and on the way out handed Diana hers.  
   
In the semi-darkness of the very early morning, she followed him to the kitchen.  
   
There he waited for her. "Diana, don’t stroke my face like that."  
   
"I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would find me too lowly to accept a caress," she answered quietly.  
   
"You know better than to presume such a thing," the tall Nubian admonished her.  
   
"Then what ought I to believe? Why is it wrong of me to do that?"  
   
He held out his lighter-skinned palm to her and, when she took it, drew her close.  
   
"And why…?"  
   
"Listen," he shushed her. "When you do that, you remind me of my love. And I don’t want to be reminded."  
   
"But … why not?"  
   
"Because she is far away from here." He paused, then added slowly, "If she lives."  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, a large police station near the city centre, modern day, early afternoon]_  
   
"Yes … No … Yes, that’s the one I meant," Richie had kept answering questions patiently. Finally they had been directed here. The large office reminded MacLeod of a bee-hive, because of its conical roof, the officers bustling in and out and the constant hum of people talking. Duncan sincerely wished they would soon be finished. The sooner they could go and join forces with Methos and Diana, the better.  
   
The two tall blond cops didn’t seem willing to answer the friendly questions Duncan had dropped in conversationally as Richie made his statement. In fact, the more he asked, the more uncommunicative they got. So he now confined himself to looking bored, while Richie was asked again and again whether he had caught sight of the lorry’s driver.  
   
That had also been the first question after the young Immortal had put them in the picture regarding the rough layout of the scene before it all had happened. Richie had first said that no, he hadn’t seen the driver, but then he had changed his mind. He’d admitted reluctantly that his memory of the accident was all blurry. Now he kept to the story that he could not remember whether he had actually seen the driver. "Aww, man!" the young Immortal sighed when he was asked yet again. "I know I landed in a car, ‘cause I’ve been told so – ‘s only by luck that I’m alive, you know? Don’t tell me people usually remember that kind of details after THAT?"  
   
"But you said you hadn’t seen the driver at first," Duncan suddenly pretended to join sides with the cops.  
   
"Hey, do you always get everything right the first time?" Richie challenged him. "I wasn’t thinking! So when I did think about it, I realised how little I remember. So, does that make me a criminal?" He shook his head at the three men that were now facing him. "So why are you interrogating me like that?"  
   
Duncan realised that his former pupil was directing his challenge at him for a reason. He turned to the two police men. "He does have a point there. What is this about, really?"  
   
The older man of the two quickly put a hand on his partner’s arm and addressed Richie. "Nobody’s accusing you of anything. The car was stolen. So we want the driver not only for driving dangerously but also for theft. And probably for a few other things, as well. Now, obviously, you’re the only one who got as much as a chance of identifying him. So if there is anything you remember, anything, we’d really appreciate it."  
   
"I wish I could help you, officer. But honestly, I don’t know. If I remember anything…"  
   
"Yes," the policeman with the stiff posture agreed hurriedly, "if you do, make sure you give us a call." He handed Richie a plain little card with nothing on it but a telephone number.  
   
He shared a glance with his colleague that Duncan found hard to interpret and dismissed them in his curt and slightly old-fashioned way.  
   
Duncan looked back at the desk the two cops sat at, as he and Richie were leaving the large beehive-like office. He saw the two gazing back at them. Somehow he got the impression that the younger man had been taken in, but the older one had some misgivings.  
   
"What was that all about, Richie?" Duncan demanded as soon as they were seated in the car.  
   
"I was just gonna ask you the same," Richie countered crossly.  
   
"You start. Why did you change your story and make them so suspicious?"  
   
"Don’t you see? Methos and Diana probably _saw_ the guys that did that. Okay? So, if they’ve got a description to work with, I can pass it on."  
   
Duncan nodded slowly. "I suppose you could. Smart. But why didn’t you say right away that you didn’t remember?"  
   
"Oh come, Mac, you’re 400 years old! You could really have figured that out! I told you, I wasn't thinking! Then that idea occurred to me – so that's what I did." He shrugged. "So why did you have to turn on me?"  
   
"They were far too suspicious of us. I had to do something to gain their trust. The older guy has a pretty shrewd look in his eyes. Not easy to outsmart. He was going to get an explanation, anyhow, so I thought I’d help him get it quickly."  
   
"Yeah, right, and give me less time to think something up, thank you." Richie made a face.  
   
"At least it worked. They still don’t like the look of this, but not as much as before. – Now let’s get going," he added quickly, and proceeded to steer his elegant black Thunderbird out of the parking lot carefully.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, early afternoon]_  
   
"There is only one plug."  
   
He groaned. "Of course. There would be. – Well," he forced himself to sound cheerful, "we’ll just have to install a second one. It will take a little time, but nothing like a crashed server."  
   
After another hour and a half, both their laptops were connected to the internet and ready to start searching it.  
   
"Can you hack into the FBI data?" Diana ventured.  
  
"I could, I guess, given time. Only we don’t _have_ the time. Besides, those two weren’t FBI, they came from the police, so I presume the FBI isn’t involved, for some reason."  
   
She nodded. "So, we’d have to try and access the police files?"  
   
"I’d rather try a more general approach. We’ll go for cases like this and set a few robots to search for them. They might hit those police files, as well." (4) After a few clicks on his laptop, a window opened and on its prompting, Adam began to type in search parameters. Suddenly he looked up. "Do you know many authors?"  
   
"Of course, quite a few."  
   
"So, what are you waiting for? Call them. And the editors etc. Send out emails if you can’t get them on the phone. Get them to ask their friends if they know anything about a case like this. Hut-hut-hut!"  
   
Briskly she nodded, grabbed her cell phone and retreated a little, to the kitchenette where she wouldn’t disturb him too much.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, a warehouse in the Old Harbour District, modern day, early afternoon]_  
   
Joe lifted his head. He felt giddy, his head swam as much as his vision did.  
   
He had no idea where he was. _*Probably a hospital*_ , he thought drowsily, before he fell asleep again.  
   
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  
  


   
   
   
 _[Rome, in the year of the Consules Lucius Caecilus Metellus  
and Quintus Marius Rex, 686 a.u.c.(5)]_  
   
"Aphrodite," Diana addressed the head cook, "where is Marcus today?"  
   
"I don’t know. Perhaps he is going about his duties," the older woman answered pointedly.  
   
"Yes, probably," Diana concurred meekly, but she wasn’t satisfied.  
   
Marcus usually was like a clockwork in performing his duties, and this was the time he normally came in to discuss their master’s plans for the day and what would be required of the two cooks to make everything work smoothly. Even so he was nowhere to be seen. And since their master Aulus Tullius would not return from the latest of his trips to Herculaneum before noon, he could hardly have sent Marcus out.  
   
Still, it was not a cook’s place to go inquiring after the major domus, so she concentrated on preparing the peacock brains.  
   
However, when her master arrived, Marcus was still gone.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, afternoon]_  
   
Suddenly the door bell rang.  
   
"If that’s the police again," Adam grumbled, "I shall find it exceedingly hard not to do something savage."  
   
But his initial motion toward the door already told him that there would be no need for excessive restraint. Somebody knocked on the door impatiently and called out. He recognised the voice that came through the door muffled and with a jerk of his head sent Diana to let them in. Then he reclined on the couch again and went back to searching his old paper back-up copies of the Watcher files for anything even remotely helpful.  
   
"Good to see you, Mac," he said with feeling. "Richie," he nodded in the direction of the younger man.  
   
"What’s the plan?" Richie inquired eagerly.  
   
"There will be no plan," Adam informed him, "until we’ve got our facts together. At the moment we are searching the net for additional information." He told them what they had learned from the police and was surprised to find that they had a story of their own to offer in exchange.  
   
"Oh, dash it! We can’t send you there anytime soon, can we now…" His features grew pensive. "Unless… The only way to do it would be piecemeal." He looked up at Duncan, indicating Richie. "Is he a good actor? Any good at lying?"  
   
Obviously MacLeod weighed his words, before he replied, "Not much, if he has to make up his mind on the spur of the moment."  
   
"You will have to be well-prepared, then," he told the young man gravely.  
   
Richie had seemed inclined to protest at Mac’s words, but now he acquiesced, "I guess so." Pierson noticed that the young man was watching Diana.  
   
At the moment she looked frail and lost, having nothing to do but watch over the computers. She had made all the calls she could, asked all the friends and colleagues, acquaintances she considered trustworthy and had finally written up a summary of what her calls and emails had yielded so far. Apparently, the summary had proven depressingly short, for she had not shown it to him yet.  
   
"Diana," Adam called her in a commanding tone. When he had her attention, his voice softened. "Did you get a good look at any of the kidnappers?"  
   
She frowned. "I saw the man that dragged him into the van only very briefly. But I can describe the voice of one."  
   
"Well, it’s a start. Was that the sham delivery man?" She agreed. "I can depict that one. Now, you make sure Richie knows how to explain what his voice was like." Since Richie looked very doubtful, he added, "You’ll tell them the driver yelled at you through the open window." Turning back to Diana, he stated curtly, "We’ll mix up the two men if we can. There must have been at least two."  
   
She retreated to a corner at the other end of the room with Richie.  
   
At length Adam fixed his eyes on the fourth Immortal. "Mac, can you do anything in the way of underworld contacts? I’m afraid my own ones have all but died out."  
   
"Sure." The tall muscular man went over to the door. His hand resting on the handle, he inquired, "You coming?"  
   
Pierson did his best to answer in a neutral voice. "No."  
   
"Chickening out again?"  
   
Adam smiled cynically. "Diana needs me. We’ll stay in contact."  
   
A moment later, Duncan was gone.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Rome, in the year of the Consules Lucius Caecilus Metellus and Quintus Marius Rex, 686 a.u.c.]_  
   
"What is it, Diana?"  
   
"Nothing, domine. Please forgive me."  
   
"You miss Marcus, don’t you."  
   
She hung her head. "Yes, domine."  
   
"He was a very good slave. If you are as obedient, maybe you will go free, as well."  
   
"Oh, it’s not that, domine. I’m only sorry I couldn’t say good-bye."  
   
"Surely he had his reasons for leaving at once."  
   
Diana thought of the woman Marcus would now be seeking. "Yes, he did. I hope the Gods bless his path."  
   
When she went to bed that night, she pulled her blanket over her head and silently cried herself to sleep.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, The Zone, modern day, evening]_  
   
"Diana needs me, my ass! Richie can take care of her just fine." Duncan was muttering on his way along one of the unlit roads of the Zone. The Zone was part of Seacouver’s worst district, the Port District. It was dirty, dangerous and on most nights curiously devoid of patrolling policemen. It was getting better, though, he mused when observing three officers two blocks away.  
   
And in a small way, he was actually contributing to the change as he still made donations to the nearest thing these people got to free social services, at a small hospital. More importantly, MacLeod had personally driven out the Zone’s charismatic young wannabe-Godfather, Canaan, a few years ago.  
   
However, it had been Joe who had drawn his attention to the man.  
   
It had been Joe who had persuaded him to come here. Well, Joe was the kind of friend that brought out the best in a man, he thought fondly. Hopefully, the contacts Duncan had made at the time would prove useful now. The world couldn’t do without men like Dawson. They just HAD to save him.  
   
He finally reached the small shabby hospital and entered through the new security-door he had helped put there himself. "Asia"?  
   
A tired African-American came out of a little room at the back. She looked unusually frail. "Yeah? – Oh, hi, Mr. MacLeod."  
   
"I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night. I need your help. I’ve been to just about everyone I know, so…" He met her gaze honestly. "You’re my last chance."  
   
"What is it you need?" Actually, she looked sick. He’d have to try and keep himself from burdening her with too much information.  
   
"Do you know of anyone who’s stolen a couple of vans?"  
   
She eyed him acerbically. "What do you mean, a _couple_ of vans? Stolen by one of the miserable creatures out there? They might steal _one_ , sell it and feast on the gains for a week, maybe, but they don’t get organised enough to do more than that. Not without Canaan." She sighed exhaustedly and leaned on the wall by the entrance. "Anyway, I haven’t heard about any coup like that."  
   
"Is there anyone you could ask if they know anything? Anyone _I_ could ask?" he urged her.  
   
"No, if you ask, they won’t answer. I’ll ask around."  
   
"Listen, Asia, this is really important. Let me know as soon as you find anything."  
   
She nodded. "Okay. Now go. I need my sleep."  
   
Turning to go, he smiled, "You might want to shut up the door this time," but she shook her head.  
   
"They don’t steal from me. They know they need me. And I don’t keep anything the junkies might want anywhere they could find it. I’ve…" Suddenly she swayed. Duncan rushed forward to catch her, but she steadied herself against the wall. "I’ve learned from my mistakes," she finished.  
   
Then she looked up and smiled an uneasy smile. "I’m sorry. I’m a bit unsteady. Got me a stupid ear-infection."  
   
MacLeod didn’t believe a word, but this was not a good time to argue. He put his arm around her. "Come on, I’ll take you to your room, okay?"  
   
She seemed glad of his assistance as he guided her back to her bed. There she sat, and all of a sudden she grinned up at him ruefully. "You haven’t ever really seen my sunny side, have you?"  
   
I mean, first I got involved with Canaan, then I kept yelling at you when you put up that door," – she jerked her thumb in the direction of the safety-door – "and now I practically faint on you. That’s a nice image you must have got of me," she told him, her voice tinged with sarcasm and light sadness.  
   
"Just don’t do it again," Duncan responded, smiling benevolently.  
   
"I’ll do my best. And I’ll give you a ring as soon as I hear anything about your vans."  
   
Duncan hoped she really meant that while he said his good-byes and left the shabby building.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, a police station, modern day, half past 10 p.m.]_  
   
"We’ll call it a night, shall we, Pete?" Sometimes Jason’s easy-going way really got on ones nerves.  
   
Pete smoothed back his ash-blond hair and sighed. Unfortunately his partner was often also right, so one couldn’t just stop listening. The truth was that very likely he was right again this time. Yet the older man stubbornly pleaded, "No, please, let’s talk this over just one more time, okay?"  
   
"Oh, come! We’re worn out! How do you expect us to do any better reasoning than in the past five hours, huh?"  
   
"Just one more," the older man insisted. He felt his haggard, bony face take on an obstinate expression and forced himself to smile. "One for the road, okay?"  
   
The young man smiled and assented. "Alright. What have we got? Fingerprints?" he asked for the hundredth time.  
   
"Just smears and partial prints on the steering wheel, and a couple of really strange ones in the back."  
   
"Whoever thought to climb in the back, anyway?" Jason asked, knowing that they had already found there was no explanation for those prints.  
   
"Alison did. Started with the door and followed the trail inside. Anyway, they aren’t getting us anywhere. They don’t belong to anyone we know."  
   
"Hair? – Well, yeah, but that’s basically the same problem," the young man answered his own question. "Some grey hairs in the back, very likely from one of the manufacturer’s mechanics; a longish blond one in the driver’s seat, origin completely unknown. Possibly also from manufacturer, who knows. Either way, no hair analysis on file to compare the stuff to, so we might as well disregard it."  
   
Pete smiled. The kid was learning. "Now we come to the interesting part: witnesses."  
   
"So far we don’t have any." He caught Pete’s look. "Okay, only one with a chance of remembering – a very small chance, if you ask me. The guy’s had a mighty fine bump on the head, we hear. ‘Ve you ever had a concussion?"  
   
His partner responded calmly, "No, but my daughter had one. And that boy struck me as nothing like a patient with a concussion. If he really fainted, then it must have been nerves."  
   
"Yeah, maybe. So maybe he’ll remember. But that doesn’t help us, does it?"  
   
"We can ask him about the hair. I mean, ask specifically for short grey hair and long blond. Among others, of course." They had to be very careful not to push the witness in any direction. Not just because any lawyer could tear your work to pieces if you did that, no, it was a matter of ethics. After all, how could you fine people for doing parking in the wrong spot etc., if you yourself weren’t careful in doing your duty?  
   
"Yeah, sure," Jason agreed casually.  
   
Time to change the subject. "What more information can we gain from the car?"  
   
"It was completely empty. Trust me, I had a very good look at the back and the cockpit."  
   
Pete looked up. This could be it. "Did you have a look at mileage and petrol use?"  
   
The young man cursed. "I clean forgot! … But I guess Alison did."  
   
"Make sure you ask her first thing tomorrow." Pete rose and cleaned up his desk, putting his notes back into an orderly manila folder and placing that in the uppermost drawer. "So it wasn’t in vain we went over the evidence one more time."  
   
Jason rolled his eyes. "Guess you’re right. Let’s get going."  
   
They left the building, looking forward to a late meal and their respective beds.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod’s loft, modern day, around 1 a.m.]_  
   
At home MacLeod found that Dawson’s bartender had called. "MacLeod?" the answering machine replayed his worried voice, "Can you call me back? I think there’s something … I dunno, call at the bar as soon as possible. Thanks."  
   
Duncan hesitated for a moment, then he dialled.  
   
The voice at the other end was stressed-out. "MacLeod? Thanks for calling. … That’s just the problem, I don’t know what’s the matter. … Joe’s gone. Looks like he didn’t even take the new beer supply in this afternoon. That’s completely… What? Oh! You sure?"  
   
Duncan assured him again that Joe was fine and only needed to pacify his girlfriend with a sudden trip after a really bad fight. Well, that wasn’t too far from the truth, was it? After all she would have no peace until Joe made his trip home safe and sound. And surely Joe had put up quite a fight. He wasn’t one to give in easily. "It would be completely unlike him if he hadn’t left a message for you," MacLeod continued with forced calm. "It must have got lost, then. Sorry about that."  
   
Much relieved, the bartender promised he’d find somebody to help out for a few days, hoped Joe would take his time and not worry and at last said good-bye.  
   
When MacLeod put the receiver back, he felt drained and depressed. That bartender’s was yet another life that was upset by Dawson’s absence. What impact it would have on the Watchers remained yet to be seen, and that was another worry.  
   
What if Joe didn’t come back?  
   
He hadn’t seriously thought about that till now. Now, all of a sudden, the idea hit him full force, and he gasped. Shocked, he swallowed hard as he stared at the wall in front of him with wide, unseeing eyes.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
   
   
 _[Seacouver, a warehouse in the Old Harbour District, modern day, night]_  
   
When Joe woke again, this time everything was clearer. He could see the dark room, and he was aware of the concrete floor he was half lying, half sitting on. It was cool, but not cold. Uncomfortable.  
   
He had still no idea where he was, but now he remembered how he had got here.  
   
He tried to move and found his hands were bound.  
   
So, he assessed the situation, he was tired, a little sick, and apart from his head-ache he seemed pretty much unhurt. Well, this was as good a start as you could expect under the circumstances.  
   
He wondered if the head-ache was related to his attempt at escaping the three men that had brought him here. A concussion maybe?  
   
Or was it the stuff they had poured down his throat? He retched at the mere thought of it. The fluid had been bright green and had tasted like… _ugh!_ He shook his head violently. He could only hope they wouldn’t do that again.  
   
If they tried… Hmm, perhaps he stood a better chance if he pretended to sleep?  
   
Yeah, sleep sounded like a great idea…  
   
He drifted off into an uneasy slumber.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, just after 2 a.m.]_  
   
Finally Richie was gone.  
   
Adam yawned. They had worked out a fairly believable story for Richie of how he had begun to remember and what to say if the police refused to believe him. That had been hard work. First Diana had done a drawing of the man she had observed to make things easier, and had made the young Immortal memorise everything she could tell him. And then Adam had had to teach Richie how to tell his story, which had not been an easy task.  
   
But now, at last, he was hopefully prepared well enough. So they had sent him on his way.  
   
All was quiet again.  
   
The computers were still working away in comparative silence. Diana had just checked if any emails had come, but if there had been any, they had obviously not been helpful. She looked terribly distant again as she returned from the machines.  
   
"Diana, there is nothing else left for you to do. Both our laptops are occupied with searching, I’ve set my best hacker contact to access the police files. If we happen upon any names, she’ll follow those up, too. Go to bed."  
   
"I can’t, domine."  
   
"Yes, you can. And you will. I want you."  
   
She stared.  
   
"I said I want you," he repeated when she didn’t react. In his mind a voice was laughing mirthlessly.  
   
"Please,…" the girl began, but he shut her up.  
   
"No. Either you are obedient or you are not. Choose wisely."  
   
Apparently Diana thought that now she was getting a peek at how cruel he could _really_ be. The truth, however, was that he was being kind. She needed him to confirm that for now he would be her master. This just seemed to be the gentlest way for him to do it. Apparently it was one of the blessings of Immortality that to manage that he didn’t actually have to want her.  
   
Besides, she needed the distraction, something to occupy her mind.  
   
And here she was, shocked at his behaviour – how ironic!  
   
It only went against her morals, of all things. This would have been funny, if the situation hadn’t been so precarious, for they both knew well enough that she would enjoy sleeping with him.  
   
Which, indeed, she did.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, morning]_  
   
Adam was standing in front of the mirror and trying to analyse his features. After a while he called: "Diana! Come here."  
   
She appeared in the door a few moments later. "Yes, domine?"  
   
"How old do you think I was when I died the first time?" He turned to her and gave her the opportunity to study his features.  
   
"How far would I have to think back?"  
   
He smiled sadly. "I wish I knew." When she didn’t reply, he noticed that she wasn’t listening, but looking back at the computers. "What’s the matter?"  
   
"We’ve got mail."  
   
No wonder she was anxious to get back. "Good. Go open it."  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver Duncan MacLeod’s dojo, modern day, morning]_  
   
Before the second ring was finished, MacLeod was out in his little office and lifting the receiver. "Hello?"  
   
It was Asia.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, The Zone, modern day, late morning]_  
   
On the telephone Asia had sounded excited and lively, but now he found his concern renewed. The young woman looked a little feverish, Duncan thought.  
   
"I understand. No, Asia, don’t worry, I really understand that." The way she was fretting over having called him about so circumstantial a clue didn’t sound at all like the robust lady he’d gotten to know when he had come here the first time, either.  
   
"When Rosalind said her boys must’ve done somethin’ crazy, calling was like a reflex, MacLeod," she repeated for about the third time.  
   
All he had said, innocently enough, was that it would be quite a coincidence if this should be the clue he had hoped for. All the same, of course he would go and find out. Since then she had kept apologizing. Her remarks reminded him of a squirrel in a cage: jumping and moving and getting nowhere. That, too, was unlike her usual cool self. She had to be pretty sick to be this incoherent. "I really should get some work done. Oh, is there anything I can do to help? Sorry for keeping you. And look, I’m really sorry about…"  
   
Duncan put both hands on her shoulders and told her bluntly, "Asia, you’re sick. Go to bed."  
   
She looked surprised. "Sick? Oh, that’s just that ear-infection. It’s nothing."  
   
"Listen to me," he began, but then he realised that it was no use arguing. Scooping her up in his arms, he swept her off her feet and carried her to her bed. He set her down gently. "I can’t go to bed," she protested, gesturing toward the large room outside. "They need me."  
   
"Yeah, a great favour you’ll be doing them if you don’t take care of yourself!" he scolded her. She still resisted, until he had the bright idea to remind her, "Think of the example you’re setting." That finally seemed to convince her.  
   
"Alright, MacLeod. I’ll…" With the air of one who was too tired to even talk, she left the sentence unfinished while she clumsily slipped beneath the covers.  
   
Duncan waited till she had fallen asleep and at long last quietly slipped out.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, a warehouse in the Old Harbour District, modern day, late morning]_  
   
Joe woke with a start.  
   
No, nothing had changed. The room was still bare, devoid of any sort of comfort, except perhaps the softer material on the walls that made it even more sound-proof. Very likely, it had once been a studio, and nobody had bothered to take that off.  
   
He shivered.  
   
The men had left him nothing, no food no water, no light, not even a scratch of paper on the concrete floor. Just the rope that bound his hands.  
   
They had even known about his prosthetics and had taken those away, too. When he had heard the men dump them just outside the room, he had felt doubly humiliated.  
   
All the same, he knew there was no way he could have put up a better fight.  
   
They had been frighteningly well-organised. In their team, everyone knew what he had to do. Dawson got the distinct impression that they weren’t doing this for the first time by a long shot.  
   
The thought gave him all sorts of frightening ideas...  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, The Zone, modern day, late morning]_  
   
It proved lucky for Rosalind’s four sons that Duncan was delayed by Asia’s bout of sickness. When he entered the large junkyard that was their favourite hang-out, he found the four youngsters facing a challenge they were in no shape to meet. A large mortal with a knife in his right hand and a baseball bat in his left was frightening enough, but this one was a HUGE GIANT mortal with a knife and a baseball bat. Duncan could understand why the boys were white as sheets, even though there were four of them. By comparison, even Duncan himself, tall and well-muscled as he was, looked a bit like a gangly youth.  
   
What he couldn’t understand was why they weren’t moving. They reminded him of deer frozen to the spot by the sight of nearing headlights.  
   
"Hey," MacLeod called out. "What’s up?" Apparently, his impression had hit the mark. At the sound of his voice, the youngsters dispersed into the junkyard.  
   
The giant turned around angrily. "Wassup? None of yer business, buddy!" A muscle between the nose and the corner of the man’s mouth started to twitch. He was about to turn really mean, Duncan realised as the massive mortal stepped closer to stress his aggressive stance and impressive height. "Get lost or I’ll teach yer about butting in!"  
   
Duncan smiled. The guy didn’t look too bright. Perhaps this would be easier than he had feared.  
   
Silently MacLeod stood his ground and waited.  
   
Duncan saw the move coming. He dodged easily when the mortal lashed out, and lifted up his hands in an appeasing gesture. "Listen," he began in a soothing voice, his head ducking lower, like a young dog’s would when it was pledging with an alpha. "If you really want to fight…" His eyes met the taller man’s and held his gaze. Suddenly his hand flashed forward in a blur and his opponent crumpled to the ground unconscious. Dryly MacLeod finished the sentence, "…make sure you hit your target."  
   
"Man!" he suddenly heard a young voice from behind a deranged bus. "He’s got the Hound!"  
   
Duncan looked up. He couldn’t see anybody, only wreckage of all kinds of vehicles. The four boys were at home here, and the voice had sounded afraid. He’d have to gain their trust fast, or they’d be gone in an instant. What was the fastest way to do this?  
   
MacLeod stood and called out, "Hey! You’d better run, cause he’ll come around in about a minute." He had no quarrel with this man, so he decided to just leave him where he lay. The giant would be sound enough in a few moments. In fact, Duncan knew that very likely he hadn’t lost more brain cells than getting drunk would have cost him. Quietly MacLeod walked away.  
   
As he went along the dirty road, he could feel that he was being watched. He turned into another dirt road that led to an old part of the Seacouver Port. Little later he came to the place where Canaan had once had him killed. The nasty memory of being thrown into the oily, brackish water heightened his discomfort.  
   
Suddenly a youth appeared atop a small, flat building by the road ahead. Then another. While the other two came to stand behind them, the first one dropped down onto the street. He watched Duncan and waited.  
   
The tall Immortal decided that this was the boys’ leader. He’d only have to concentrate on this one for the time being.  
   
MacLeod stopped only a yard from the youngster, but not before he had noticed the uncertainty in the young man’s eyes.  
   
The boy said simply, "Good job, that." He waited for an answer. When he got none, he ventured, "I guess we could use a bodyguard."  
   
MacLeod broke into laughter. "That’s rich! That’s good! Whatever for?"  
   
The boy jerked his thumb in the general direction of the junk yard. "Hey, you’ve seen the guy, haven’t you?"  
   
Bluntly, Duncan acknowledged, "He is after you. And when he gets you, you’re in for no pleasantries."  
   
"So? You gonna help us? We only got a few bucks, but there’s a brand new car in it for you... Nice big van." He named maker and model with a certain pride.  
   
That sounded promising, in a manner of speaking. "Tell me why he’s after you." The change in the young man’s expression reminded him of a trap door falling shut. MacLeod had to remain adamant. Besides, his was the better position. "It took me some time to learn that you can’t help people without seeing eye to eye. I’ve learned the lesson well." He sidestepped the youth and moved on.  
   
"Wait!" This time, the youngster’s voice sounded more like a frightened boy’s.  
   
Duncan turned.  
   
"A business partner sent him."  
   
"Oh, sure," MacLeod snorted cynically and once more turned to go. He was desperate to find out more but he had to conceal his emotions at all costs. Thank goodness these boys had rather less than 20 years of life-experience each. It was easy to keep his feelings hidden from them. He looked back over his shoulder. "Who and why – if you don’t tell me that much, there’s no reason why we should go on talking."  
   
"Alright! Wait!" one of the other three boys above them exclaimed. A rat-faced 18-year-old dropped down beside his brother. A heated argument started between the youngsters, but it was over quickly.  
   
"Okay," they finally agreed, "but not here."  
   
On the way back to the junkyard, McLeod found himself wondering if he was beginning to walk in circles.  
  


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Rome, in the year of the Consules Manius Aemilius Lepidus  
and Lucius Vocacius Tullus, 688 a.u.c.(6)]_  
   
   
"Come in, Diana. I want to show you something."  
   
She was curious, which wasn’t something she often felt. "Yes, domine?"  
   
"Can you read?"  
   
Disappointed, she shook her head. "No, I … none of my masters wanted me to, I believe."  
   
"I do." He indicated a wooden board with an inlet of wax, the more common material one usually wrote on. It was covered with writing. "You will learn it with this. That should give you some incentive." He smiled in the pensive, calculating manner he often displayed. "You liked Marcus, didn’t you?"  
   
Surprised and puzzled, she assented.  
   
He pointed at the wax board again. "He has sent us a letter."  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, morning]_  
   
"So, what does it say?" Adam inquired.  
   
Without a word she handed him the print-out. He perused the letter and nodded. He stood motionless for a thoughtful moment and for a second Diana thought all hope had left him.  
   
Then, quite suddenly, he turned active again, uttered orders and sat at one of the computers. It was the one Diana had used, as it had finished the search. She found she had held her breath and finally released it. Then she, too, started moving.  
   
"Now let’s see what crawling the net has yielded so far," he muttered under his breath as he took hold of the mouse.  
   
Diana was glad to see the screen change, the email turning into a small button at the bottom. Doing as she had been told, she cleaned the room of the papers her master had strewn on the floor during the night.  
   
Meanwhile, Adam made a print-out, looked at some flight information and finally moved over to the other computer. But to no avail; it was still engaged. They’d have to be patient until he could access the info it had been gathering.  
   
While they waited for the printer to finish, Diana took some notes Adam dictated on what he had learned so far. Then she went to make a quick breakfast.  
   
When she returned, she found him looking down at the stack of paper in his hands. He looked up at her and gave it to her, his gaze telling her to take care of it.  
   
Diana wondered what he was planning to do while she dealt with the print-outs. But she didn’t really care. She was glad that at last she had something to do, something that would occupy her mind.  
   
Meanwhile, Adam went over to the phone and dialed a number in Paris.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Rome, in the year of the Consules Manius Aemilius Lepidus  
and Lucius Vocacius Tullus, 688 a.u.c.]_  
   
"Very good. Now the next sentence."  
   
Painfully slowly she read, "I think of my Roman family often. But now my place is here in the Island of Meroe, with my Nubian family, where I have a wife and, praise the Gods, a young son born while I was gone. I hope I will live to have seven sons. Thank you, domine,…" She stopped.  
   
"Go on."  
   
"I can not read this word." She indicated some letters pressed into the wax.  
   
Tullius Auratus laughed. "No wonder. The following is a Nubian phrase. He thanks me for the way I treated him."  
   
"You understand Nubian?" She realized her words might sound as if she doubted his word and hastily added, "I had not known that."  
   
"I do, a little," he replied mildly. "Now read on."  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, late morning]_  
   
"Alors? Réponds!" Adam inquired at the telephone, none too politely. He was getting impatient with the crackling line. Finally he thought he heard a female voice again. "Allô Amanda? ... Elle n'est pas là ...ah bon!? ...Je comprends. Mais..." He checked himself. It was no use getting irate with the housekeeper. "Bien." He thought for a moment and promised to call again within an hour, "Je l’appellerais dans un heure." Ruefully he noticed that his French was getting rusty again.  
   
Half an hour later, however, he was already called back.  
   
"Pierson," Adam said curtly on lifting the receiver. Then he altered his tone. "Oh, hi!" For a while he listened to the person on the other end. Then he interrupted the lively voice. "Yes, … umm … well, look, I think I got a job for you." He looked at Diana and winked. Apparently, this was the first stroke of luck of the day.  
   
"Yes, can you come at once?" He seemed to get a negative answer. "How much are they paying?" He didn’t listen to the answer, but immediately went on, "As much as a friend’s life?" He grinned, knowing that now he had pushed the right button. "Good. There’s a flight you might manage to catch at…" His face fell. "What? Where the heck are you, then? … What in goodness’ name are you doing in…" He stopped himself abruptly. "Never mind. Work something out and call me back." Then he hung up.  
   
Rolling his eyes, he sighed, "Switzerland, of all places! Couldn’t she be in New York, buying couture?"  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Rome, in the year of the Consules Manius Aemilius Lepidus and Lucius Vocacius Tullus, 688 a.u.c.]_  
   
It was late at night. All the other slaves were already sleeping.  
   
She glanced over their dark forms and thought of Marcus. When he had left, for a month or two the empty space had remained where he had used to sleep. But little by little, the slaves had closed their ranks, the gap had disappeared. Now Diana could feel the hole he had left behind only in her heart. Today her master had chosen a new major domus. Graecus would surely be a good major domus, but he was so different from Marcus…  
   
Marcus had promised to write a letter to "his Roman family" every year. She smiled. The phrase he had used was so typical of his slightly stiff and stand-offish, yet warm-hearted manner. He had always kept everyone at arm’s length. Graecus would find it hard to do that. He wasn’t the type.  
   
Still the two men did share some characteristics, including their fondness of Diana’s company in bed. Only Graecus didn’t just want warmth. He wanted her to seduce him.  
   
He had just broken up with his girlfriend because, Diana suspected, he hoped his new status would make him more attractive to the other slave girls.  
   
And in fact, he had gained some attraction, even for Diana herself. What was it that had changed? He had always been strong and well-muscled, with the neck of a young bull, but now… One simply noticed him more. His musky smell. His quick eyes.  
   
Perhaps she would do him the favor and seduce him after all. It might help her get over losing Marcus as her nightly companion…  
   
Once again Diana felt deep sadness rising up her throat.  
   
Once again she slept little, and wept many a silent tear that night.  
   
   
   
   
_[Rome, in the year of the Consules Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus  
and Lucius Marcius Philippus, __698 a.u.c. (7)]_  
   
"A letter, domine! A letter from Nubia!"  
   
Aulus Tullius Auratus smiled at his cook’s enthusiasm. "What does Marcus have to say?"  
   
Diana opened the folded wooden board with its oblong wax-tables, ready to read the missive to her master.  
   
Her expression changed. Her mouth and eyes going dry, she gasped. "It is not from Marcus. It is from his son." She looked up at her owner, helpless pain in her eyes. "Marcus is dead."  
   
More to himself than to her, the tall eques muttered, "They always die too young."  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, late morning]_  
   
"You called Amanda? Are you mad?" Duncan exclaimed angrily.  
   
He had found Methos alone when he had arrived to share his news.  
   
"What’s the matter?" the ancient Immortal now asked, a little bewildered.  
   
"She keeps a low profile for a reason whenever she’s in Seacouver. You could’ve guessed that, you _know_ her."  
   
"And what would that reason be, pray?" Methos inquired, coolly sarcastic.  
   
Duncan gave him an angry look. He hated the memory, but he hated having to recount it even more. Again he lived to regret something the mischievous Amanda had led him to do. She and a … friend.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod’s loft, several months earlier]_  
   
"Sam Grinkhov," Cory Raines muttered.  
   
"You stole from Sam Grinkhov?!" Duncan and Richie yelled in unison, disbelieving.  
   
Cory Raines had done just that and, to make matters worse, had made Amanda his accomplice by taking her hostage. Of course, Amanda had loved the whole experience. Unfortunately she had a serious weakness for charming crooks like Cory. There had even been a time when she and Cory had robbed banks and…  
   
Duncan shoved the memory aside. The problem right now was: What were they to do about Grinkhov? After all, he was one of the five most famous and powerful criminals around here, and an influential member of a Mafia-like organisation. Only someone as careless as Cory Raines could possibly steal from a bank owned by Grinkhov.  
   
One thing was certain: Amanda had to leave right away. Paris, yes, that was it, Paris… or Madrid, perhaps. She had liked Madrid, hadn’t she?  
   
Again MacLeod had to check his train of thought. He had to do something.  
   
He got on the phone, while Richie, binding him to a wooden chair, started lecturing Cory. Duncan heartily agreed with the young Immortal’s "You’re not a thief, you’re an idiot."  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
_[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, late morning]_  
   
"So Grinkhov never got his money back? Now that’s quite a stunt to pull off… No wonder Amanda doesn’t show up as often these days," Methos chuckled.  
   
"I just don’t understand why she agreed to help." Duncan shook his head.  
   
Adam didn’t answer right away, but at last he said what had to be said: "There’s a life at stake that matters to you. And to her. And we’ll need all the help we can get."  
   


  
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
_[Seacouver, in an exclusive down-town coffee-shop, modern day, late morning]_  
   
Diana could sense the other Immortal long before she got eye-contact. It was a strong aura, and it felt just right -- at least as old as her own. Fear shot a cold arrow up her spine, as it always did, piercing her skull near-painful. She allowed her eyes to scan the room nervously, until they came to rest on a squat, middle-aged woman looking at her with a sad smile. Diana rose from her seat and inclined her head with a slight, almost unnoticeable bow.  
   
The woman nodded and came over.  
   
"Thank you for coming, Colleen," Diana addressed her fellow-writer in English.  
   
"Servus (8) ," Colleen jocularly greeted her with a strong Viennese accent, the sadness in her features retreating to her eyes. "It’s been a long time." They sat at Diana’s table. Colleen took a deep breath, made sure they weren’t overheard and looked hard at Diana. "Tell me, why is it you sent me that e-mail?"  
   
Diana met her gaze frankly. "Can you not guess?"  
   
"Then it is true. You miss a loved one, and you are searching for them." Suddenly Diana felt her warm hand cover her own cold ones. "Be prepared for the worst. There is little hope, if…"  
   
"If what?"  
   
"If these are the same people as in my and Penelope’s case."  
   
"Whose? Please, Colleen, tell me all you know."  
   
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, late morning]_  
   
"You don’t know the worst part yet," MacLeod darkly hinted, stalling.  
   
Methos didn’t even bother to reply. He just waited. The Highlander was old enough to speak without being prompted.  
   
At last he did speak, looking out of the window as he did. "Grinkhov is behind the stolen vans."  
   
This time even the ancient Immortal whistled.  
  


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Rome, in the year of the Consules Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus  
and Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio, 702 a.u.c.(9)]_  
   
In the dead of the night low moans echoed through the slave quarters.  
   
Recognizing the voice, the slaves thought at first that the major domus was enjoying himself, probably with his favorite among the slave girls, Diana. So they turned him their back to give him a minimum of privacy. But after a while they realized that in fact he was in pain.  
   
Early the next morning Diana knocked on the door of her master, Aulus Tullius Auratus.  
   
He called her in. With her head bowed, she told him sadly, "It’s Graecus, domine… You were right: They always die too soon."  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, late morning]_  
   
"I asked Richie to keep an eye on those boys. Grinkov doesn’t know him. Or if he does, he remembers him as the little crook he once was. Anyway, he’s taking the boys on a ride, they should be safe enough for now."  
   
Methos nodded slowly. MacLeod’s reasoning was sound. He himself didn’t understand why he bothered, but… well, that was MacLeod for you.  
   
The ringing of the cell-phone cut into the silence that had settled between the two Immortals.  
   
Methos whipped out his mobile. "Pierson."  
   
Duncan saw his expression change from concern to hope to anger and back to concern and then it turned completely unreadable. The ancient Immortal uttered but a single word: "Thanks." Then he shut the line down and put the phone back in his trouser pocket.  
   
Finally Methos caught his eye. "You can stop worrying. She’s not coming."  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Villarsel-sur-Marly, in a cosy rented office, modern day, noon (by Seacouver time)]_  
   
Finally the email with the list of names came through, together with some comments on procedure and information on each person. One thing was for sure: those writers were easy targets.  
   
But then, committing a crime often had this satisfying notion of being on the winning team’s side. People just didn’t expect _themselves_ to be the ones that were stolen from or robbed,… They simply didn’t have a REAL grasp of statistics, including crime statistics, and so they just didn’t watch their backs.  
   
 _Suits me just fine._  
   
It made the job in hand so much easier.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, a warehouse in the Old Harbour District, modern day, noon]_  
   
Joe noticed his lips were parched. Again his stomach rumbled.  
   
Yes, he knew there was no way he could have put up a better fight. He had made use of all he could remember of the training he had once got in the Army. Without success. They were too many, and too well-trained. But if he couldn’t fight them physically, he’d have to use his brains. Diana had said she liked "younger men with brains". He smiled fleetingly.  
   
He had to get back to her. Out of here.  
   
He looked around for the hundredth time.  
   
There was no way out. The windows were too high up. And the door… No, that wasn’t an option, either. He had tried.  
   
Suddenly he wondered if the men would ever come back.  
   
What if they didn’t?  
   
Could he risk pounding against the metal door?  
   
What about all those soft panels on the wall… what if you ripped them off, as far as you could, and piled them up?  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, noon]_  
   
"Any idea just how much time we’ve got?" Duncan asked, his voice heavy with a sense of doom.  
   
"Enough, if we’re lucky. We must try, anyway, and we must act swiftly." Methos’ voice was calm, cool, matter-of-fact. "We have to gather together all we know about Grinkov and where he might have put Joe." Duncan nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Methos continued, "Or whom he might have hired… But first of all, we’ll start with the obvious solutions: What would be a good place near where the car was found?"  
   
Again Duncan set out to speak, and yet again he was cut short: the telephone rang.  
   
Adam took up the receiver. He spoke little. Obviously he was learning something new, if none too helpful. Then he told the caller to find out more about Grinkov. A joke was shared, but Duncan noticed that there was no mirth in Methos’ eyes.  
   
Then he listened again.  
   
Finally he said, "I don’t think that will help us." He took the receiver from his ear and told Duncan that the authors involved were tied to only three separate publishers. And the publishers all were with the same insurance company… He shrugged. Addressing the caller, he continued, "But maybe you can uncover the link to Grinkov. That might lead us to where Joe is now. Now, listen, Amanda, what you’re looking for is a hiding place. Something sound-proof or lonesome. You get my drift."  
   
As he went on to describe it, Duncan sat in a chair heavily. Methos’ clear, cool voice made it more real than it had been so far: Joe might very well be dying at this moment.  
   
Duncan shuddered inwardly. They had to save him. They just had to.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
   
   
   
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, in a small diner, modern day, noon]_  
   
Diana was just filling her stylish little back-pack with the print-outs, when the teenage girl that had brought them yelped. "Dammit! They are towing away the car!"  
   
Diana looked up. "Your car?"  
   
"Daddy’s!" the girl groaned helplessly.  
   
"We’ll get it, don’t worry. I’ll take you there and pay the fine, if you listen to me right now."  
   
The girl gave her a hard stare that made her seem older than her actual age. Then she nodded. "Okay. Shoot."  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Adam Pierson’s flat, modern day, noon]_  
   
"I think I could set those kids searching in the Zone. But I don’t believe Joe’s kept there, really."  
   
"Try them, anyway. After all, Richie’s with them." Methos tone had by now assumed quiet authority, and Duncan suddenly realised how very willing he was to comply. Why, was he _that_ bewildered? Or was Methos manipulating him?  
   
He shut his eyes and drew his hand over his tired features. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they had to find Joe. And soon.  
   
He made his call, but told Richie to be very careful.  
   


*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


When the telephone rang, Duncan jumped.  
   
Adam, looking calm and in control, muttered his curt "Pierson." But all of a sudden he gasped, "What? Where?" He nodded a few times as he listened. "Good. Has she got her laptop with her? Good. Then set the girl working. Tell her to find you anything on the house she can hack into. We’re coming."  
   
Duncan immediately crossed the room, put on his long duster coat with his concealed sword and followed Methos out. He was glad that at last they apparently had a definite lead.  
   
While they were driving, Adam explained that – against all odds – Dina had found one of the kidnappers. She was positive, even though she had never seen his face. Apparently she had recognized his voice.  
   
Suddenly Duncan snapped, "At least call Amanda. She needs to know." On hearing the reason why the were driving all the way to a lot outside Seacouver, he had grown grumpy. He knew only too well just how eagerly he had jumped at the chance of doing something definite. Diana probably felt the same, only more intense. Maybe too much for this to be a reliable clue... He sighed. It just didn’t sound good. The man worked at a tow-away place she happened to have to go to? No. It just sounded like too much of a coincidence. Or like a desperate try to find SOMEthing, any trace...  
   
Despite his misgivings, MacLeod didn’t turn his black Thunderbird back. It was a chance, at least. The only one they had.  
   
At last they arrived at the café near the place.  
   
After the unbearably long hours of worrying, after coming to dead ends again and again, finally things began to happen more quickly. Diana, Adam and Duncan spoke briefly. They crossed the street and entered the spacious lot that held an odd assortment of cars. At the back, several vans of the same make stood side by side. Adam went over to them and started to look them over, one after the other. They all looked brand-new.  
   
A clerk came jogging across the lot, yelling, "Hey, that’s private property!"  
   
"How am I supposed to find out which one is mine, then?" Duncan coolly asked him as he neared them.  
   
"What?" the very clean-and-orderly-looking man gasped. "How about the license plate, buddy?"  
   
Duncan laughed ruefully, "Frankly, I had the car only for a day before it was towed... I forgot the number."  
   
Methos, feeling that this was going in the wrong direction interjected, "But why have you got so many of the same make, anyway? You got a fetish or something?" he chuckled. "And each brand-new, too!" He eyed the man shrewdly.  
   
Suddenly, the man panicked, turned on his heel and ran as if the devil himself were pursuing him. Actually, he was pursued, indeed, but only by two Immortals. Adam calmly watched them run after him. He followed slowly while MacLeod and Diana caught up with the man by the large iron gates of the lot. Duncan held him in a well-executed lever-hold on his little finger – small movements, easy to overlook from afar, but quite effective – and led him back, out of sight.  
   
Half an hour later they at least knew where to look.  
   


  
  
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Herkulaneum, in the year of the Consules Quintus Fufius Calenus  
and Publius Vatinius, 706 a.u.c.(10)]_  
   
The screams subsided.  
   
Aulus Tullius Auratus was sitting in the peristylium, by the little fountain, waiting.  
   
His wife Sempronia had given birth to a small little boy a few hours ago. Too small. It didn’t matter that the child couldn’t possibly be his. He still had felt as if his entrails were being ripped out when he found that the child might not make it.  
   
Now Diana came out into the garden.  
   
He watched her as she approached. She looked sad and frightened.  
   
She stopped.  
   
Taking a deep breath, she shook her head and uttered only two words. "Too soon."  
   
His features turned stony.  
   
 _Born too soon to live – died too soon to live._  
   
He turned her his back, so that she wouldn’t see that his eyes were brimming over. You couldn’t let your slave see you cry. He breathed in. He breathed out. When he was sure his voice would be level, he dryly commented, "Too soon by a lifetime."  
   
He went into the house and left Diana in the garden, alone.  
   


   
\+   +   +   +   +   +   +  +   +   +   +   +   +  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, a warehouse in the Old Harbour District, modern day, early afternoon]_  
   
No, he still could not reach the window. There was no way out. None whatsoever.  
   
Joe forced himself to breath slowly. Whatever he did, it would have to be well-considered. He’d have to hold out. Very likely, Diana and Mac would be looking for him. Maybe all he needed to do was stay alive.  
   
At least he was properly dressed, and the room wasn’t too cold, only a bit damp.  
   
Maybe that was good: He would neither freeze to death nor dry out too quickly.  
   
Yes, that was the right way of thinking – he had to hold on to every bit of hope he had left. He couldn’t allow himself to go mad.  
   
And then, he smiled.  
   
There was one thing nobody could take away from him without taking his life. And that they had left him.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, The Zone, another dirty junk yard, modern day, early afternoon]_  
   
Richie wasn’t overly happy to be stuck with the four lads. They were too much like what he had once been. Except for one thing: they had a mother.  
   
They boys were oblivious to Richie’s discomfort, as they all kept talking about cars, bikes, motors and racing.  
   
It was easy enough to talk to them as long as he stuck to that topic. They were quite knowledgeable – in fact, they knew just about every single dirty trick you could use to sell a vehicle above its due price. But they also had the sort of knowledge and experience any mechanic could be proud of.  
   
"No, of course the Yamaha is bigger," Errol was saying now. "But the sound of that machine’s motor is just..." He sighed happily.  
   
Richie smiled. He had never ridden that particular model, but he remembered a time when he had fancied a certain make in just the same way. As something completely unattainable. "‘Incomparable’ is the expression you’re looking for," he supplied quietly.  
   
The boys seemed to be at one in this matter. They all nodded or made suitable noises.  
   
After a while they decided they wanted to see another friend of theirs. They hoped this one would be home. Or at least the motor-bike he was building.  
   
On the way back to the car – a rented one, because Mac had thought it would be safer than using bikes or, God forbid, his own pretty little T-Bird – Laurence suddenly stopped. "I say," he challenged Richie, "how are we supposed to know if you can really protect us?"  
   
"Yeah!" Errol agreed, with some surprise in his voice. "He’s right. You should ... umm ... show us something."  
   
Richie rolled his eyes. If there was anything he did NOT want to do, it was fight.  
   
He was more than thankful when the oldest youngster’s cell phone rang.  
   
"David here," the boy barked onto the little apparatus. He covered the mouthpiece and hissed nervously, "It’s the Hound." As he listened to the caller, he eyes grew narrow and his expression even more rat-like. He nodded and briskly answered that he’d call back in a minute. Then he looked at Richie. "I guess we don’t need you any more." He turned to his brothers. "Grinkov needs us. If we’re good, we can keep the vans."  
   
"And if you fail?" Richie retorted coldly.  
   
Cary, the youngest boy, looked quite frightened, while Laurence, who seemed to be a rather impulsive sort of bloke, set his jaw and nodded at David.  
   
Errol nodded, too. "We always run that risk. That’s not new."  
   
"I’m coming with you," Richie put in.  
   
"We said we ain’t gonna need you," Laurence insisted.  
   
"Let him," Cary begged. Giving Errol a sharp glance, he added, "Maybe we’ll see if he’s any good as a bodyguard, like you wanted. I guess we’ll have to pay him, anyway."  
   
Richie didn’t care the least bit about money, but he could see they were slowly coming around. So he told them, "You can’t buy your life back after you lost it. With me, you get a better chance of keeping it." Man, did he sound like a movie hero.  
   
It was working. Reluctantly, the four youngsters agreed to take him with them.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Old Harbour District, the cellar of a half-demolished high-rise building, modern day, late afternoon]_  
   
"Long time, no see," the Hound – formerly known as Danny Simmonts – greeted Richie. They had once been in the same school. Not for very long, though. Simmonts had been expelled for bringing weapons to school three weeks after Richie’s arrival. After that, they had met on occasion, as you usually would if you lived in the same district. "The boss didn’t ask for you," the giant added, none too unfriendly.  
   
"We figured he might want an extra man," Cary ventured respectfully.  
   
"He’d find my talents handy," Richie added and winked, street-style, just as he would have a few years earlier. It felt eerily bizarre to him now, the gesture of a stranger.  
   
Simmonts grunted, "Okay. You can ask him." He opened a door and waived them through.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Villarsel-sur-Marly, in a cosy rented office, modern day, late afternoon (by Seacouver time)]_  
   
This was it. The deserted recording studio in the Old Harbour district. Amanda sighed relief.  
   
The studio had been with her own bank. A shady little bank in the Port District, owned by Sam Grinkov. The same Sam Grinkov that had paid four lads from the Zone to steal and conceal a dozen vans. The same Sam Grinkov who very likely was behind Joe Dawson’s kidnapping. And the same Sam Grinkov who held shares of an insurance company that specialised on book-stores, editors, authors and the like.  
   
She nodded. Yes, it _had_ to be the right place. Now all she needed to do was dig up the building’s construction plans. That would be easy enough.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Old Harbour District, at the back of a half-demolished high-rise building, modern day, late afternoon]_  
   
Diana stopped short. As the two men came up behind her, they felt it, too. A noise-like pain crept up their necks in an instant. It hit their skulls violently, as though a great church-bell were clanging right beside their ears. Fear always came with this physical warning that there was an Immortal in the vicinity. With practised ease they fought it down.  
   
"That could be Richie," Duncan put into words what they were all thinking. Richie had called a while ago to say the boys were taking him to Grinkov. He hadn’t had time to tell MacLeod more.  
   
A moment later, the unpleasant sensation died down – the Immortal was leaving the area within which they could sense him.  
   
"So?" Adam coolly inquired. "You’re not suggesting we all go in there and free those criminal puppies, are you? Perhaps I should remind you that we may be fast, but neither of us is faster than a bullet would be."  
   
Suddenly the nasty feeling was back: the unseen Immortal got closer again.  
   
Diana lifted her head and whispered agitatedly, "I hear something!" She crept forward to peek around the next corner of the building. Her eyes wide with excitement, she nodded back at the two men.  
   
When Duncan looked over her shoulder, he could see the giant he had fought at the junk-yard. The man was holding a gun to Richie’s head and leading him to a van. Behind him, Rosalind’s four sons followed very reluctantly. They looked frightened and uncertain. One seemed to be pleading with the giant, but at least they were in no immediate danger. He drew back.  
   
Of course it was the most wrong moment conceivable for this to happen: MacLeod’s cell phone rang.  
   
Wide-eyed, Duncan saw Methos’ hand glide over his shoulder to Diana’s ear. There, the ancient Immortal snapped his fingers. Her head shot around, she nodded with an understanding MacLeod did not share and stepped forward, pulling out her own telephone. She frowned down at it, seemingly oblivious to the six men in front of her.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Villarsel-sur-Marly, in a cosy rented office, modern day, late afternoon (by Seacouver time)]_  
   
At last Duncan answered the phone. His voice was hushed, but that didn’t matter now. "Mac! I think I know where they’ve got Joe. You must get to Germ Street in the Old Harbour District. Call me back when you’re there."  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Old Harbour District, at the back of a half-demolished high-rise building, modern day, late afternoon]_  
   
"Ey, lady!" Diana slowly looked up at the four boys in front of her. She smiled and put a finger over her lips. With cat-like grace she approached the young man who had tried to distract her. He stood on the near side of the van.  
   
She winked, as she put her hand on his shoulder and asked "What is it, sexy?" as she moved along the van’s back. She bent down to look beneath the car. Yes, those were Richie’s legs, and these belonged to the huge man.  
   
"What a lovely car you got," she added, while her hand slid down the side of her trouser leg. In one quick motion she rounded the van’s corner and shouted "Richie! Down!"  
   
Both men ducked, but the taller man was too slow by the tenth of a second. He screamed, when Diana’s little throwing star hit his chest, close to the right arm. Richie fell forward, on his hands, and kicked back with both legs. One shoe hit the giant square on the jaw, the other missed the gun by a few inches. The Hound fell backwards, but he was still moving. Clumsily he rolled back over his shoulder with a grunt, losing the gun.  
   
By the time he was ready to stand, however, Richie was behind him. The young Immortal held him in a lock that promised to suffocate him if he tried to finish standing up.  
   
By then, Diana was also pointing his own gun at his head.  
   
"Let go, Richie," Duncan’s voice ordered. "The Hound is gonna take us to Germ Street."  
   
Adam suddenly added, "You could take our young friends back to their family, if you care to. I think he’ll find Diana persuasive enough."  
   
Richie wasn’t in the mood to contradict. He had been knocked about quite a bit by Simmonts, before the big man had finally held a gun to his temple. Needless to say the four boys had been of no use when the giant had ordered him and them to accompany him on a little trip. Frankly, he was in no shape to be of much use right now. He’d have to take a few deep breaths before he was. In the meantime he could easily take the boys home. It wasn’t far.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, a warehouse in Germ Street, modern day, evening]_  
   
They hadn’t been in the van for very long, but as the atmosphere practically reeked of angst it had seemed like an eternity. Now they could finally step out into fresh air again.  
   
A cold evening wind tugged at their coats. Duncan shivered, as he punched Amanda’s number into his cell phone.  
   
He glanced back at Diana who was covering the Hound. He was going to ask what they were going to do with the man when he saw Methos’ fist shoot forward in a blur and knock the huge man unconscious.  
   
Duncan shrugged, pulling the long duster coat tighter around his body. He held the phone to his ear, but the connection took a moment to build. Again he looked back at the others.  
   
Diana was lending Adam a hand with the giant. She didn’t seem to feel the cold at all. Actually, her features looked cool and expressionless, not at all like the face of a woman fearing for her lover.  
   
A rope appeared from Goodness knew where. They tied the big limp form to one of the concrete pillars that had once held up a tall wire fence around a neighbouring building, while MacLeod finally got through to Amanda.  
   
Following her directions they moved on, down the cellar stairs.  
   
They entered a dark passage.  
   
"Look!" MacLeod had spotted the glint of some plastic items on the dusty floor ahead. To his exploring fingers they felt remarkably like legs. "They must be Joe’s." He explored a little more, then he spoke into the phone urgently, "Amanda, I think we found the right door. It’s got some sort of lock. ... No, it’s completely dark in here, with no light to speak of."  
   
Precious minutes flowed by while he tried to pick the lock. After a while Adam asked if he could try, in uncommonly polite tones. Finally the door opened.  
   
From a window high in the back wall, the fading light of day filled the room.  
   
Duncan grinned broadly as he set eyes on Joe.  
   
Joe Dawson was sitting on a high pile of foam plastic, smiling and humming a blues tune. His posture was relaxed, his eyes were half-closed. His beard was a little longer than usual, but apart from that, the only thing that bore witness to his imprisonment was the absence of his legs.  
   
MacLeod turned and stepped out of the room again. Quickly he gathered up the prosthetics and Joe’s cane.  
   
Diana slipped into the room and started to run toward Joe, when Adam’s voice stopped her authoritatively, "Diana!"  
   
At this shouted command, she froze. Then she lowered her eyes and came back.  
   
Adam took her by the shoulder. The motion held a slight hint of force, Duncan noticed, but his voice did not. "Not now." He drove her out of the room.  
   
MacLeod was alone with Joe again.  
   
"Good to see you," he said quietly.  
   
Joe started at the sound of his voice. He looked as if he was being woken from sleep.  
   
The Immortal smiled. Perhaps he was. Sleep was a very good friend if you had neither food nor water.  
   
At last Dawson seemed to recognise Duncan. "Mac!" He laughed.  
   
When he tried to lift himself, his breath became laboured.  
   
Duncan rushed to his side. "Easy does it." Obviously Dawson had suffered more than had been apparent at first glance.  
   
In brief words MacLeod reassured Amanda, before he rang off and called an ambulance. Then he took the old man and lifted him in his arms. It wasn’t easy with the missing legs, but he managed. He carried him to the door, negotiated around three corners and set him down beside a water-tap.  
   
Stopping Joe from drinking too much too fast took quite some effort. Not that Joe could put up much real resistance, but it wrenched at MacLeod’s heart to see how desperately his friend craved the life-giving element of water.  
   
Still, all that counted was that he was alive. It was going to be okay.  
   
A moment later he carried Dawson up the stairs and over to his car.  
   
Reaching it, he found that Methos and Diana were nowhere to be seen. He looked around.  
   
Behind him, the door of the derelict warehouse opened again.  
   
Diana came out with a little boy in her arms. The child was obviously clinging to her in desperation. She was rocking him, her expression sad and distant, and whispering into his ear.  
   
They waited, watching Diana and the child.  
   
After a while the sound of an ambulance became audible from somewhere far off. "Did you call them?" Adam asked Duncan.  
   
A little late, the younger Immortal realised that the ambulance would very likely bring the police with them. It didn’t matter.  
   
When he nodded, Adam turned to the boy, "Would you rather be alone with Diana?" His voice had taken on a more gentle tone than MacLeod had ever thought him capable of.  
   
The boy looked up at him without understanding. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. After taking another breath he replied in a high voice half choked by suppressed tears, "I want _my_ Mama."  
   
"Amanda," Duncan suddenly blurted out.  
   
"Pardon?"  
   
"Amanda can help find his mother. – Can you tell me your name, little man?"  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
   
 _[Seacouver, The Zone, modern day, late evening]_  
   
The police had been remarkably understanding and had not kept them long. The little boy had been taken home by his overjoyed parents and Joe was sleeping peacefully in a stark-white hospital bed, with Diana and Methos sitting at his side. So Duncan had decided he’d come and see Asia, in the hope of getting Richie to come along to the hospital.  
   
Asia was looking much better today.  
   
"How are you?" he asked her.  
   
"I’m good," she told him. "Thanks for putting me to bed the other night. Rosalind tells me I was nearly delirious. Been overtaxing myself, I s’pose. – Richie’s coming back in a moment."  
   
He nodded quietly. "Rosalind’s a friend, isn’t she. I’d already wondered why she’d tell you about her boys."  
   
"She’s my sister. I live at her house."  
   
"If she’s family, I’m doubly glad to have been of help."  
   
She laughed sarcastically, "You’re touched because we’re family?"  
   
"Let’s see, what have we got?" Duncan began very quietly, meeting her eyes. "My father threw me out of the house, because I’m alive; one of my own kin tried to kill me; next to all my family is dead, and I can’t have kids of my own. – Not a bunch of reasons to believe in family, would you say? But you know something? I still do. Somehow blood still is thicker than water."  
   
Touched, she smiled, "You’re hopelessly romantic."  
   
Richie’s features appeared in the door. He pointed behind himself and they saw Errol leave the beg room behind him. "What did you do to him?"  
   
"What do you mean?"  
   
"He had tears in his eyes." The young Immortal looked quite perplexed.  
   
Asia bit her lip thoughtfully, as she eyed MacLeod. "I guess he overheard you. – It’s quite a mouthful for a kid to take in, in a district with a 70%-divorce rate..." She grinned. "Sounds like you reached him, though."  
   
Looking from her face to Richie’s, Duncan felt a wave of emotion warm him through and through. He smiled. "Romantic ideas like love and friendship can be pretty infectious." He winked. "That’s why they work."  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Inner City Hospital, modern day, early morning]_  
   
"Well, Diana, it’s over, at last. You are free again," Adam told her outside when they had to leave the room for a while.  
   
"Adam," she began, stressing the name, "can I ask you something?"  
   
"Certainly."  
   
"You hate being my master, don’t you?"  
   
"Not _your_ master. Just a master as such."  
   
"But why?"  
   
"It’s the same as fighting. I hate it because I love it." She regretted asking when she saw how ill at ease he was with answering her question. "Or let’s say, a rather unlovely part of me loves it."  
   
"I always knew you could be cruel," she smiled calmly.  
   
"No, Diana, you know nothing about how cruel I can be." His voice grew hard and fierce, and angrier with each word. "Think of your worst nightmare and multiply it by a hundred, and that will still be no more than a glimpse of what I have been."  
   
Her calm was probably tantalizing to him, but it was honest enough. Maybe it would even help put him more at ease. "So?"  
   
"Deep down I am a monster," he told her matter-of-factly. "Of course, at the same time I also am a perfect Renaissance man and all that ... but the monster is there. It will always be."  
   
She put it with as much restraint as she could muster, "I still don’t understand."  
   
"Every fight, every use of power or violence lures it to the surface. Need I say more?"  
   
Diana shook her head. She still didn’t feel she fully understood his discomfort, but enough had been said. To continue would have been impolite, seeing that he seemed to find the subject painful. "You can control it. Even if there is a whole zoo of nightmarish monsters inside you, that is fine by me! Because I trust the one who has tamed them."  
   
For the first time in the 2000 years of her life, she saw a tear run down his cheek.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
 _[Seacouver, Inner City Hospital, modern day, a little later]_  
   
Methos was standing in front of Joe’s room, his hand on the door handle.  
   
He had just asked Diana to give him some time alone with Joe, and take a break. After all, Joe was safe and reasonably well. So Diana had agreed, even if she didn’t like it.  
   
He knew that there was something Dawson wanted to talk to him about. The weakened man had started to speak one or two times when Diana had fallen asleep the night before, after Duncan and Richie had left. But each time she had woken at the slightest sound from him. Now Methos was wondering what it could be. After a second of thought he shrugged and opened the door.  
   
He sat by the man in the too-white bed. Joe was asleep. He looked thinner here, surrounded by all that white beneath glaring lights. Adam smiled fondly and settled down to wait in silence.  
   
An hour later, Joe opened his eyes again.  
   
"Hey," Methos greeted him, "how are you feeling?"  
   
Obviously he was still weak, for he only replied, "Better," with a wry face. Then, a moment later, he added, "Thanks."  
   
Adam went over to the sink and brought Joe a glass of water. He sounded like he needed it.  
   
With another "thanks" Dawson took it and drank it in three long, slow gulps. Adam refilled the glass. Joe sipped from it, but now his focus had shifted. He was watching not the glass this time, but Methos.  
   
The Immortal set it down on the bedstead and met the mortal’s eyes. "Get it off your chest, Joe."  
   
Dawson scowled, but at length he asked straight-forward enough, "Why did you call her back ... away from me ... when you found me?"  
   
The truth was, Methos had feared she would break down and he’d have a case of bad hysterics at his hands, with a possible enemy lurking somewhere in a dark corner. In fact, she _HAD_ very nearly broken down in the hospital after handing over the little boy. It wouldn’t do to tell Joe that. Besides, it had only _nearly_ happened. "We had to check the other rooms first."  
   
Joe eyed him curiously. "You sounded so protective."  
   
Methos lowered his head. "One tends to be protective of friends."  
   


   
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Epilogue

  
   
 _[Seacouver, Joe's flat, three days later, morning]_  
   
Joe was still a little weak, but he had insisted he needed to get back to the bar and his old life. Duncan, Adam and Diana all had gone to fetch him and take him home. It was just as well, seeing that he wasn’t exactly surefooted right now. The two tall men took him between them while Diana went ahead and opened the doors.  
   
Now she was inserting the key into the lock of Joe’s flat. It felt a little odd to be doing this again, in peace and quiet. She knew that Duncan had come in this morning to make sure the flat was okay and the fridge stocked, but she herself had not been here since Joe had been kidnapped. During this past turbulent week she had never even thought of entering the flat. First she had been at Adam’s place, frantically trying to find Joe. And after they had found him she had of course stayed as close to him as possible, day and night.  
   
Now they were returning together. It was the ideal way to come home, she mused with a smile.  
   
When they entered, she heard a buzzing noise. Yes, there is was again. Barely audibly, but insistent. After another moment she realised it was the answering machine. She went over.  
   
The voice seemed unfamiliar to her, but it was hard to tell with the usual bad quality you got from answering machines. "If you miss your friend, you’d better be at the little fountain in King’s Park tomorrow, 6 a.m. sharp. Don’t bring police, just wait by the phone box till we ring you."  
   
Everyone stood around awkwardly, until suddenly Joe grinned. "I was lucky you didn’t believe them."  
   
Diana turned to him and told him frankly, "We never even heard the message. We..." Suddenly her lower lip began to tremble. For a split second all of them, even Diana, thought she was going to cry. Instead, she laughed. "We already were on the hunt. The message was a bit late."  
   
She reached out and stroked Joe’s cheek, her eyes saying what her words could not.  
   
"Aha-mazing grace..." Joe sang briefly, with a grin and a pirate’s glint in his eye, now transforming the lyrics, "...-ful lady..." Now he stopped and nodded toward the bedroom door. "I’m afraid I still need a little rest, though."  
   
Duncan, on whose arm Joe had still been resting some of his weight, took him to the bedroom.  


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
So suddenly Diana found herself alone with her former master.  
   
After a long moment of silence, he spoke first. "You don’t need me any more, do you? ... At a wild guess, I should suppose you are not going to come and be mine as often as you used to."  
   
She said nothing. There was no need for an answer to that.  
   
"After all this time," he finally continued," I know myself very well. Usually I can foretell my sentiments for certain situations. Still, I had expected to feel relief at this. Not sadness."  
   
"After all this time, hmm? How long has that time been?"  
   
"I don’t know."  
   
"What do you mean, you don’t know?"  
   
He met her concerned gaze. "You have no idea who I was before you existed. Would you mind greatly if we kept it that way?"  
   
Her lips pursed slightly, as though the temptation to smile were tugging at their corners. "Yes, I would."  
   
He nodded slowly. "How old do you think I am?"  
   
She smiled. "Obviously older than I thought."  
   
"Much older," he confirmed, stressing the first word.  
   
"You’re not... ?"  
   
"Oh, yes, I am. I am Methos."  
   
She giggled. "It feels curious to have known you all that time and yet..." She held out her hand. "Nice to meet you, Methos."  
   
"Nice to meet you, Illaesa de Roma," he answered with a sardonic grin.  
   


   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  
   
THE END.   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *  


   
   
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FOOTNOTES:  
(1)a.u.c. is an abbreviation for “ab urbe condita, which I think means something like “after the founding of the city” (of Rome).  
By the time system most readers will, like me, be used to, 684 a.u.c. is roughly 70 B.C. The Roman system will be applied where appropriate, like it was in the first part of this triolgy.  
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(2)For those who like trivia: That’s (supposed to be) pronounced roughly like “Illaesa de Roma”, which in Latin means “unharmed one from Rome”.  
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(3)In other words, roughly 69 years before our current time system.  
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(4)Please don’t stone me if I got this all wrong. If you can suggest a better approach, I should greatly appreciate your telling me! ;-)  
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(5) i.e., roughly 68 years before our current time system  
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(6)That’s 66 years before our current numbering of years started.  
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(7)in other words, roughly 69 years before our current time system  
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(8)"Servus" is, indeed, used as a colloquial greeting in Vienna. It’s original meaning "I am your servant" all but lost, even women use it like that nowadays, i.e. in the male form  
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(9)That’s 52 years before our current numbering of years started.  
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(10)That’s 47 years before our current numbering of years started.  
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	4. A Fragment - not quite an Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana and Methos meet again

  
"We are still friends, aren't we?"  
  
Methos, who had felt the Immortal presence dance on the fringe of his nerves for a while already, recognised the voice and released his breath. "I would hope so."  
  
He had every reason to hope so. He was in bad shape at the moment - the Quickening had taken its toll. Sometimes he thought it got worse with the age of the head he took, but that might be just his imagination. It was always bad.  
  
"So. Do I call you domine, or Adam now? Or...?" Long, long ago, Diana had been his slave, then his lover, then his client, and then ... hard to define.  
  
He looked at her, took in the slender frame leaning against a dirty white-washed wall, the red frills, the flawless creamy skin. It kept astonishing him that Immortals bodies didn't really change throughout the centuries. In Diana's case, the mind had barely changed, either. "If I tell you what to do and you obey, then it doesn't matter what you call me."   
  
"To me, it does. Wouldn't want to disappoint you." The mild sarcasm was new. At least when applied to _him_.  
  
"What do you call your friends?"  
  
She laughed. "You'd be surprised. One I call father, another I call sister." She grinned. "You taught me the importance of good connections to the church." The grin subsided. "True friends are rare. There's Joe, now. And a few others. But ... there is not one single way of addressing them. And my animal friends often have no names, even, so there you go." Right now, her eyes reminded him of a cat's - impossible to read.  
  
"I'm still Adam at the moment."  
  
Diana nodded. "Adam, then."  
  
Time to turn the tables. "So, what do I call you?" He smirked.  
  
"Actually, Diana had to disappear." She inclined her head, introducing herself 1950ies style, "Esperanza Torturro, nice to meet you." The fake Spanish lilt was cute.  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
She laughed. "Seriously."   
  
"Well, at least you've given 'Diana' a miss this time around."  
  
"You worry. About me. Why?"  
  
He would have liked to laugh, but... "Because I can't help it. Isn't that what I've always done, all the years you've known me?"  
  
"You mean, you worry by force of habit?" Clearly she was amused.  
  
"Call it what you like." That should have sounded the lone-wolf sort of rough, but it actually came out far too close to his true sentiment: helpless, and resigned.  
  
"I do not intend to call it _any_ thing, but it sure is a rather lovely habit." She smirked.  
  
* _Sweet,_ * he thought to himself caustically. * _The slave who has so very long loved me like a beaten dog is now trying to cheer me up out of pity. Ye Gods!_ * And he couldn't even stop her, because that would require authority and would propel them both right back into their old roles...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember: The usual things apply: Nothing you recognise from TV is mine, just the story as such and the character Diana. No money gained, no copyright infringement intended.


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